Ripper: Eternal Vengeance: Ring of Arinoth Book 3
by C. Allen White
Summary: [Sequel to Witch's Trial and Project Eve] And now the EXCITING CONCLUSION! Feedback welcome! Giles, Willow and MacKenzie in England face off against Arinoth and his minions. Will it be the final time? [Pls read Author's Note]
1. Chapter 1 When Ghosts Visit

Chapter 1 

When Ghost's Visit

_Wednesday, __4:23 PM___

            Rupert Giles let himself into his small west-end flat while trying to balance two bags of groceries and the day's mail. He managed to navigate it all to the kitchen and get it dropped onto the counter without colliding with anything in particular. Given that he was living in a veritable catacomb of partially unpacked boxes and piles of books, he felt that the accomplishment deserved a cup of tea. He set the kettle on the stove and turned on the flame.

            That's when the ghost appeared.

            At least Rupert assumed it was ghost, for one moment there had been nothing and the next there it was, standing in the kitchen doorway. Rupert stepped back involuntarily, colliding with the kitchen cabinet. "Dear G –" he started to strangle out, but the figure in the doorway raised a finger to its lips with an urgent twitch, ordering silence with the gesture. The figure turned back to gaze into the living room of the flat.

            Rupert bit back his exclamation and forced himself to look at the ghost, and immediately noticed that it carried a large caliber pistol equipped with a silencer. The figure looked back at him, and recognition dawned. This was no ghost, although he moved as silently as one. The figure was very much human – and few ghosts on Earth were anywhere near as dangerous.

            Captain MacKenzie, once of the Special Air Service, was one of the deadliest commandos in the RAF. Giles had met him briefly once several years ago – when a rogue branch of the Watcher's Council had attempted to use Buffy Summers – the Slayer – to assassinate Congressman Jackson Greene of California. The rogue watchers were assisted by an entire SAS commando team, of which Captain MacKenzie was the second in command. As soon as he had realized what was really happening, MacKenzie had switched sides and saved both Buffy and Congressman Greene.

            He had left immediately after the encounter and gone to L.A. There he had assisted Angel in saving Faith and unraveling a plan by the rogue watchers to create a slayer army – one created by systematically killing each slayer in a clinically controlled environment and then reviving her as soon as the next slayer was called. In the process, he had broken up the commando team operating in the U.S. and exposed the rogue watcher group.

            After that, he had simply disappeared.

            Giles could hardly be blamed for not recognizing him. He had met him for only a few intense hours and that had been so long ago – oh so long ago. It was before he and Buffy's 'Scooby Gang' had faced the god Glory; before Buffy had died. It was before she had been resurrected by the witch Willow, and that was before Willow had nearly destroyed the world in grief and anger over the death of her lover Tara.

            Willow is what had brought Rupert Giles back to England. She was perhaps the greatest natural witch on Earth. Her power was nearly unimaginable – and uncontrollable. After she had nearly annihilated the planet, he brought her England to study with a coven he knew. They were terrified of her, all of them, but it was the only hope of getting her immense power under control.

            She was tucked safely away with the coven in a secret location outside London, and as far as Rupert knew there was no possible danger pending. What possibly could explain, then, the presence of Captain MacKenzie in his apartment, armed and dangerous?

            Captain MacKenzie – Mac to his friends – smiled as he saw recognition dawn in Rupert's eyes. He liked being remembered. He stepped past him to turn off the stove and, again putting his finger to his lips, motioned for him to follow. He threaded his way through the maze of Giles' apartment with preternatural grace and stopped by a cheap looking lamp (it had been furnished with the apartment). He drew Rupert's attention down to it.

            Directing his gaze up under the lampshade, Rupert had no idea what he was looking for. Then he saw it – an electronic bug. He looked back at MacKenzie, alarmed by the discovery. Mac motioned for him to follow. Silently they maneuvered over to one of the windows that had the shade closed. Giles suddenly remembered that it had been open when he'd left earlier in the day.

            Mac drew back the shade slightly and leaned close to Rupert's ear. "Green Mercedes," he whispered.

            Giles looked down at the street as surreptitiously as possible. Sure enough, there was a dark green Mercedes Benz E-class parked about a block away. Two men leaned against it, sipping tea from Styrofoam cups. As Rupert watched, they took repeated glances at his building and his windows. He looked back over his shoulder at Mac and nodded.

            Mac again leaned close to his ear and whispered, "White delivery truck, by the bakery."

            Rupert examined the street and saw it at once. Watching carefully, he noticed that the driver wearing an ear piece, much like a transistor radio. The only problem was that no one used transistor radios today - not with only one earphone. Rupert looked around more closely and noticed a utility worker with a suspiciously sized work bag. 

            Giles drew back from the window. He cast a questioning glance at MacKenzie, who shook his head. The room was bugged, and the flat was being watched. Explanations would have to wait.

            Mac motioned for Rupert to follow and led the way back to the bedroom. There on the bed was Giles' duffle bag, packed and ready to go. Mac walked into the connecting bathroom and turned on the shower. Rupert followed him into the room knowing that the noise of the water would obscure any conversation being picked up by the bugs.

            "What's going on?" Rupert asked urgently.

            "Well, it seems we're not done with the Ring of Arinoth," MacKenzie replied.

            A shiver crawled up Rupert's spine. The Ring of Arinoth was a group of powerful and dangerous sorcerers. The Ring had infiltrated the watchers and engineered the assassination attempt, the kidnapping of Faith, and the mad plot to form the race of slayers. More than that, it's most powerful and most dangerous member was Arinoth himself, a seemingly immortal sorcerer bent on enslaving and destroying all demons – even those who attempt to peacefully coexist in this dimension. He was more than willing to kill anyone in his path – including humans who disagreed with him.

            "I thought you had broken the group's power," Giles replied.

            "Hardly," Mac responded. "They were exposed, yes, and they lost their commando team. And the plan for the race of slayers. But that hasn't stopped them by any stretch. They've just gone underground. They've been regrouping, reorganizing, and coming up with a new plan – a new objective."

            "What is it?" Giles asked. "What are they after now?"

            "I wish I knew," MacKenzie replied. "I was hoping you might help me figure it out."

            Giles hesitated. He had brought Willow here secretly – there was too much at stake and she was still very fragile. He needed to make sure that she was safely tucked away until she was strong enough to control her power. He couldn't endanger that. "I have … things," he replied. "Things I can't abandon right now," he added.

            "Aye," said Mac, cocking an eyebrow. "I imagine it's those _things that have Arinoth's people watching you. Whatever it is you're doing, I think it's their new plan."_

            "Dear God," Rupert replied, suddenly realizing that Willow could be in danger from far more than just herself. He struggled with what to do, but Mac took the decision away from him.

            "Whatever it is, I don't need to know," Mac said. "At least not yet. But you need to come with me, if not to help me find them, then at least to keep them from finding whatever it is that you're protecting." He arched his eyebrow again and nodded. There was no room for discussion.

            Rupert nodded with much less enthusiasm. "How do we get out of here with them watching?"

            "Fortunately for us," Mac replied, "I've stopped playing softball with these guys." Before Rupert could ask any questions, Mac turned off the water, effectively ending the conversation. They exited the bathroom and Mac walked over to the window by the fire escape. He pointed at the duffle and Rupert picked it up. 

            Carefully, Mac pulled back a corner of the shade and looked out the window. He looked over at Rupert expectantly, who nodded in return. They were ready. Mac indicated for Rupert to join him by the window, and then, with exquisite care, he opened both the shade and the window without exposing either of them to Arinoth's men in the alley. When they were both open, he reached into his pocket and took out his mobile phone.

            Rupert looked at him quizzically, but Mac simply gave a slight smile. He dialed a number and waited, not bothering to put the phone to his ear. Outside, beyond the flat's living room and across the street, the white delivery van exploded. Mac waited for five seconds, counting down with his fingers so Rupert could see. Five, four, three, two, one –   then, he stepped out onto the fire escape.

            Rupert Giles heard a single, muffled shot. For one terrible moment he was trapped in indecision. What was he getting himself into? He could hear the screams from the street outside and the coppers whistles. He shook himself. He'd been in mortal danger before – too many times to count – with creatures from other dimensions and inexplicable powers. Somehow, though, he found the threat of the 'real world' more difficult to handle. 

            Swallowing his fear, he followed. In the alley below lay the body of the man Captain MacKenzie had shot. He lay sprawled against the garbage, a single hole in his chest. Next to him lay the compact machine gun he had been carrying.

            Mac was quickly making his way up towards the roof. Rupert began climbing after him. The commando set a quick pace across the rooftop. Rupert matched it. 

            "Captain," he called out.

            "I haven't been a Captain since Sunnydale," Mac replied without looking back. 

            "Fine," Rupert snapped. "What about the innocent bystanders?"

            "The charge was highly directed. No one who wasn't sitting in that truck was hurt." The commando stopped and looked back. "I promise," he said firmly. "Now please, we have to move quickly." He turned and continued.

            Rupert nodded. He had known MacKenzie only briefly, but what he knew convinced him to take the man at his word. If he insisted that no innocent bystanders had been hurt, he believed him. And while he normally would've been concerned about any killing at all, the sight of the compact machine gun in the alley had convinced him that they were indeed dealing with life and death – his own, and possibly Willow's.

            Boards connected one roof to another – clear evidence that MacKenzie had carefully planned their escape. He hurried across the first, motioning for Rupert to wait until he had reached the other side so that it wouldn't have to bear their combined weight. Once on the other side, he kicked it so that it fell into the alley, thereby preventing pursuit and hiding their path. They hurried on before they could be spotted.

            They traversed several more rooftops, each one following the same pattern, zig-zgging rapidly across the skyline. They stopped on the roof of an Indian grocery and Mac took out his mobile phone once more. Rupert looked around the area in a panic, but MacKenzie smiled at him. 

            "Dinna worry lad, we're done with the demo." He dialed the phone and waited, this time holding the unit to his ear. "Got him," was all he said. He listened for a moment and then ended the call. For the first time since Rupert had seen him, he put away his pistol.

            "Who are you working with?" Rupert asked.

            "Someone who needs to meet you," he replied.

            "But who is it?"

            Mac shrugged. "There's a lot you don't understand," he said, and for a moment it seemed that it was all he was going to say. But after a moment he relented. "I work for a branch of the watchers."

            "You work for the Watcher's Council?"

            "Not exactly – not the way you know it." He took a deep breath, deciding how much to tell him. "There's more than one group of watchers in operation. You've worked with some. There are others, though. And there are divisions within them."

            "Like Arinoth's men?"

            "Exactly," nodded Mac. "That was a wee group of them – minor underlings."

            "How did you know they were watching me?" Rupert asked, shaking his head in a certain amount of confusion. "Were you watching me? And how did you manage to plant that bomb without them seeing you."

            Mac held up his hand to forestall further questions. "The fact is, I was a member of that team. I was the one who planted the bugs in your flat to begin with. Needless to say, I had no problem with having access to their van."

            "You were part of them? But …"

            "Call it being a double-agent, if you like. I've been trying to infiltrate Arinoth's organization. Not too easy, considerin' that he knows me, aye? So when a crew I was pretty sure was on his payroll needed themselves some freelance help, I took the opportunity to come on board as a contractor.

            "However, once I realized that it was _you_ they were following and bugging, I figured that Arinoth was a whole lot closer to getting what he wanted than we realized. So, I checked in with my boss, and he ordered your immediate extraction – preferably while eliminatin' the effectiveness of that particular group of operatives."

            Mac waited for Rupert to grasp what was going on. It took effort, but with a conscious act of will, he nodded.

            "Good," Mac said. "The first step is to get us both out of here." He turned and Rupert followed him. Mac led the way across one more roof and down into a parking garage. Taking a key fob out of his pocket, he unlocked a blue range rover. "Get in" he said, and climbed behind the wheel.

            The sounds of sirens could be clearly heard in the distance as they moved out into traffic and accelerated far beyond what could be considered a safe speed. Mac shifted like a race car drive as he dodged through traffic, skirting around the edge of the busy city and angling towards more established neighborhoods. 

            "Do you think the police will be looking for us?" Rupert asked while gripping the dashboard as Mac continued to dodge in and out of traffic. 

            "They'll definitely be looking for you," Mac responded. "At least some of the team would've hit your apartment by now. If everything went as planned, you'll be listed as a kidnap victim." 

            "Kidnap victim?!" Rupert was startled.

            "Better than having you listed as a terrorist," Mac replied matter-of-factly.

            "True," Rupert admitted.

            "It won't take them long to start looking for this vehicle, either," Mac said, as he continued to dodge in and out of the traffic. "Let's just hope we get where we're going first."

            Mac suddenly downshifted and cranked a hard left onto an arterial street, then cranked an equally sharp right and down an even narrower street. He shifted up again and accelerated, running along a tree lined boulevard that was clearly circumscribing a residential suburb. 

            The blue Range Rover roared into a roundabout and screeched off it like a lighting flash. Then he recklessly careened into a self-serve car wash and screeched to a stop in one of the bays. He pulled the brake and shut the vehicle off.

            "Let's go," he said, and then climbed out.

            Rupert grabbed his bag and followed. The walked away steadily. Once, Rupert looked back when he heard the water start, and there he saw a plump, middle-aged man in a plaid cap beginning to wash the vehicle. Mac rounded the corner; Rupert followed.

            "Who was that?" he asked Mac, who was halfway down the alley in front of a dumpster.

            "Just a man washing his car," replied Mac. "And vacuuming it as well."

            "Removing all trace of us in the process," finished Rupert. "Won't the police track the vehicle to him?"

            "He's been a doctor in this neighborhood for thirty years. Clean as a whistle. Hasn't even done so much as vote Labor in a dozen elections." Mac shook his head. "No, they're going to just assume that it was another vehicle – same make and model. He'll be fine." Mac nodded reassuringly. "Now, give me your wallet. Take the cash out."

            Rupert complied. Mac took off his jacket, spread it on top of the dumpster, and then removed his pistol from its holster. He quickly stripped down the pistol to component parts on top his jacket, reserving the firing pin and the silencer. He added Rupert's wallet to the pile. He rolled it all up and tossed it into the dumpster.

            "Okay, let's go," he said. They walked to the end of the alley and around the corner. There he climbed into a beat-up old jeep, indicating for Rupert to join him. "In the glove box you'll find a new wallet. You're now James Thompson."

            Rupert pulled out the wallet and looked at the license. "This doesn't look anything like me."

            "It will." The Jeep took off, this time at much more sedate pace.

            "Where are we going?" asked Rupert.

            "To Wales," replied Mac. "But first we need to see an old friend of yours." The first echoes of sirens could be heard as they pulled into traffic.

  



	2. Chapter 2 Blast from the Past

**  
** Chapter 2 

Blast from the Past

_Wednesday, __5:08 PM___

            The jeep moved through central London at a more sedate pace than their previous breakaway. At this phase discretion was more important than speed. Twice they passed police cars who were obviously casting about for the blue Range Rover, but the quick switch at the car wash enabled them to cruise by without attracting any notice whatsoever. Rupert Giles sat slumped in the passenger's seat with his cheek resting in his hand, effectively obscuring his profile from any who might be watching.

            The traffic slowed with the combined effects of the truck bombing and normal end of the day commuters. They crawled along through lanes of traffic without speaking. For Rupert there was a great deal to digest so far, including whom from his past might possibly be involved in this. There were plenty of people who had the _power_ to assist him, but none that he could think of who would've been in contact with MacKenzie. 

            The others in the Watcher's council were the most likely to help, but there would be far too many risks. Arinoth and his cohorts had infiltrated the Watchers' council deeply, corrupting it, possibly to its very core. Even if there was someone within the watchers who could and would help them, it would be nearly impossible for them to do so without the council finding out. 

            It was conceivable that one of the independent covens in England could help. It is even conceivable that MacKenzie could've been in contact with them. But Rupert considered whether or not that could've been done in such secrecy that he wouldn't have found out about it. Even if Rupert's contacts were somewhat rusty, the coven where he had placed Willow for safekeeping would've known. 

            Unless, of course, it was an evil coven – or if not evil, at least one of the 'grey' covens that operated with their own sense of morality. Those groups would be operating with their own agenda, though. To work with them would be extremely dangerous. And they couldn't be trusted to do what needed to be done. Rupert would need to be doubly careful if he was dealing with one of those. It would be too easy for them to add components to the spell – components which could easily compromise their secrecy at the most critical moment.

            There was no question in his mind that it was a magician they were going to see. Nothing else could transform Rupert into the identity in the wallet that he had been given. The face staring back at him was easily twenty years younger. He also had blonde hair to Rupert's brown, blue eyes, and easily an additional hundred pounds of weight. Any hope of standing up to any kind of inspection was going to require a sophisticated spell, and Rupert would be at the mercy of it.

            Mac's mobile phone chirped, bringing Rupert out of his reverie. It wasn't a ring, and it took Giles a moment to realize that it was a text message. Rupert had never been one to embrace the height of technology. Anything past Guttenberg's printing press was likely a _bad idea_ in his opinion – with the possible exception of the Dish Network, which had allowed him to catch the Manchester United games while he lived in America. 

            Mac read the message carefully while driving, and then placed his mobile back in his pocket. He looked over at Rupert and smiled. "You've been officially classified as a kidnap victim, although they think you must be involved in something illegal to warrant it. So, you're also suspected of something, but they're not sure what. MI-5 is going to be looking through you're knickers with a microscope, I would expect.

            "They're listing Arinoth's people as suspected terrorists, and the explosion as an inter-organization falling out. The fact that they have no idea about either faction is going to send them into an absolute fit. I've no doubt they're calling in everyone on this and starting to squeeze every snitch and contact they have. The very thought of having two organizations in such a rivalry operating undetected in London has got to have them steaming like a tea kettle in a blast furnace. The fact that the first clue they get about it is by having a truck blow up in a nice neighborhood is going to mean their superiors are going to be looking for someone's arse to take a penalty kick on."

            He paused and drove, letting Rupert take it all in. This had immediately gone way beyond anything he had been expecting. This was no longer a police matter, or even Scotland Yard or Special Section. This was now an MI-5 issue – Her Majesty's Secret Service. The world was more familiar with MI-6 and its fictional hero, James Bond. MI-6 handled external security, much the way the American CIA did. MI-5 was internal security. While Americans might reasonably make the analogy to their FBI, to do so would greatly underestimate MI-5. Her Majesty's Secret Service was a spy organization, plain and simple; and while it might be operating on its own soil, it did so with the same fervor, methods, and tools of their international Big Sister. 

            In short, the big guns had come out to play, and they weren't happy about it.

            "What about you? Is there anything about you in that message?" Rupert asked.

            "They haven't made my identity yet, or even developed a reasonable sketch. I made sure I wasn't picked up by anything. They'll be going through the footage of every security camera in the area, public and private. Unless I've messed up deliciously, though, they won't find a thing."

            "You're sure about that?" Rupert asked.

            "Aye, well, as sure as a professional can be, under the circumstances." Mac continued to drive, no further explanation being required. Mac was a professional, and as such he knew that there was no such thing as absolute certainty. _No plan survives contact with the enemy, went the old axiom. Its truth was nearly absolute. There was no way to plan for everything; no way for every part of plan to go right. So, a professional didn't plan for things to go right. They made their plans and then planned for failure at each and every step. Then they planned for their alternate plans to fail. They expected failure, and that's why a professional was always prepared to meet it when it happened. _

            Rupert didn't care to ask what would happen if this part of the plan didn't work. It wasn't so much that he had absolute faith in MacKenzie, he simply had too much on his mind right now to worry about it. "I need to make a phone call," he said instead.

            MacKenzie nodded. "Thought you might." Several blocks went by, and then Mac pulled into a street side parking space near a phone box. "Make it quick."

            Rupert didn't need the warning. He got out of the car and went quickly to box and shut the door. He scrounged through his pockets for coins and found himself too nervous to count properly. Instead, he simply dropped them all into the coin slot and dialed. 

            "Hello," said a cheery voice on the other end.

            "Gretta, it's Rupert," he said breathily. "I've only a moment, but you have to listen to me. You need to move Willow; get her out of there. In fact, get everyone out of there. Hurry. Now."

            "Giles, what's going on?"

            He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I can't explain, really I can't. It doesn't have anything to do with Willow, at least I don't think it does. Not yet, anyway. But please, just do as I ask."

            "All right," came the cautious reply. "But I'm not sure where to go."

            "Go to the farmhouse in the country, the one that belonged to Veronica. Go there, but don't tell anyone. I'll contact you there."

            "Giles, is there anything we can do to help?"

            Giles thought for a long moment. He took his glasses off and leaned against the glass of the box as he rubbed his face. Finally, he shook his head. "Not right now, but if there is I'll let you know." He moved to ring off, but then pulled the receiver back to his ear and called out. "Gretta!" He hoped he get her attention without having to ring back.

            "Yes, Rupert?"

            "Don't trust anyone," he said, and then hung up.

* * *

            "How many times have I told you that you can't trust anyone?" the Fourth Speaker of the Circle raved at the remnants of Arinoth's surveillance team. "What were you thinking, getting outside help like that?"

            The team squirmed. There were six of them left, none of whom were team leaders. The Captain had been in the truck when it blew up along with two others. The second in command, a sour ex-mercenary by the name of Bennet, had been shot by police exiting Giles's apartment. It was unclear what his condition was since nobody had stuck around to find out. Truth be told, no one had stuck around much after the first sirens. Once it became clear that the police were in the neighborhood, these six had taken off in separate directions and worked their way to the rendezvous point, ditching electronics and weapons along the way. Only Bennet had stayed behind, intent on finishing the search of Rupert's flat. That's what had led to his getting cornered and, when he had threatened police with his compact machine gun, shot by the Special Section. 

            This the team had learned about through an illegal police scanner. Once they had garnered that piece of news, they ditched even that. It was a quick walk to this meeting place, where they had found the Fourth Speaker already waiting for them. None of them were quite sure how he had known to be here, or how he had managed to be here before them. But he was here and he was livid.

            The Fourth Speaker, for his part, struggled to control his fury. He paced back and forth in his immaculate navy blue suit as he stared at them. The summons which had called him here had taken him away from a very important meeting, which was bad enough. He'd had to use portal to transport himself here ahead of the team, which meant an extreme waste of magical energy in a time of crisis. Those things alone, however, were simply nuisances that went along with this kind of operation.

            _No plan ever survives contact with the enemy, he had reminded himself when he'd first begun questioning the survivors. He couldn't really blame them if something unforeseen had happened, that was simply the nature of this kind of operation. However, upon finding out that it was likely their newest recruit that had set up the blast, the Fourth Speaker had lost all control._

            To begin with, they had not been authorized to recruit any additional operatives to this task. Second, the operative they had recruited had been done so without the screening and scrying of the Ring of Arinoth. Third, they had apparently recruited someone who wasn't even loyal to the money they were paying him, which could only mean that they had actually "recruited" one of the enemy. And all this had been done without him having the slightest clue, which could potentially mean death at the hands of his master.

            No, the Fourth Speaker was in an absolute, raving fury.

            "But we didn't have the bugging expertise for this one," said one of the team members, a slightly greasy and overweight specimen named, aptly, Rodney Stout. 

            "What do you mean, this is a basic function of what you do!" screamed the Fourth Speaker.

            "Well, it is with old Tom and Mickey on the team," he replied sharply, refusing to be cowed. "But Tom got himself right ponied a couple weeks ago, which you knew, and then Mickey got the sudden need to 'find himself' and went walkabout, which you also knew. And as the job needed to get done, the Cap'n did as need be and got us a replacement. Was it our fault he turned out to be the wrong bloke? Why wasn't you recruitin' when Old Tom got nicked?"

            The Fourth Speaker didn't bother to reply to the man. He simply lifted his hand, his well manicured nails hooked into claws, and shot a bolt of electricity out his fingertips. Rodney Stout burst into flames and began running about, screaming. The others on the team were too shocked by what had just happened to react; fortunately for them, the screaming came to an abrupt end with another burst of lightning from the Fourth Speaker's fingertips. Had they attempted to interfere, they would've received the same treatment.

            With visible effort, the Fourth Speaker got his emotions under control. He careful adjusted his shirt cuffs so that the exact amount of white showed beyond the end of his suit coat sleeve, with the glistening twinkle of the gold and diamond cuff links on display. He adjusted his tie, and then tilted his neck until he got a satisfactory pop from one of his neck joints. His color retreated from the mad purple of a moment ago to an only slightly flushed red.

            "Now then, gentleman, who here has more of an opinion to share?" he asked. The calm he now had in his voice was even more terrifying than the ranting of a moment before. To his satisfaction, no one else saw fit to reply. "Excellent. Now that we're done sharing our feeling, let's get down to work."

            He walked through the group of survivors – now five – looking each one in the eye with a devastatingly cold glare. Each one dropped their eyes almost immediately sensing that this was not the time, the place, nor the person for defying authority. Now was the time for subordination and cooperation. The Fourth Speaker smiled.

            "Now then, you will each tell me everything you know about this new team member, from what he looked like to what he called himself to what kind of toothpaste he used. You will tell me _everything_. And then _I_ will see crushing him."

* * *

            "We're here," Mac said, having parked the jeep in a garbage strewn alley in a more industrialized section of London. "Ready to make up for lost time?" The question was mysterious, and so Giles didn't see fit to reply. It didn't matter, though; Mac was already exiting the jeep and Rupert hurried after him. He crossed the alley and walked down several doors, stopping when he came to a brick stairway heading down into the building's basement. "Stay close," he said.

            Together they descended the stairs to a large steel door. Mac knocked – one long, two short, two long, three short. A small panel in the door opened and someone peeked outside. "No one here," the voice said.

            "Well then, I guess I'll just have to keep myself company," Mac replied. The man behind the door said nothing as he closed the small viewport. A moment later, the door unlocked and opened. MacKenzie walked in confidently, Rupert trailing behind. Just beyond was another staircase going even further down into the brickwork basement. The man behind the door was nowhere to be seen. Paying little heed to that fact, they descended into a large, Victorian era storeroom. 

            Well, it was clear that it had once been a Victorian era storeroom, although that was clearly not its purpose now. Now there was a bar set up across one end and several dusty tables and rickety chairs set about. There was music playing – classic punk rock – but the sound quality gave testament to the age of speaker system. There appeared to be only one other person there, a gaunt, pale figure wearing a long black coat over layers or black (and artfully torn) clothing. The figure smoked a water pipe set on the table in front of him and stared out into nothingness. His eyes, though, did a sudden movement to take in the two new visitors, assessing and dismissing them in that single glance, in order to more quickly return to their vacant staring. 

            Mac walked confidently up to the bar and leaned against it, waiting. A minute or two passed before the bartender appeared, coming from a back area and manhandling a keg obviously intended for installation behind the bar. The barkeep was old – at least fifty – balding and fat and sweaty. He wore leather pants and a leather vest, biker boots and chains at his waist. He looked up to see them standing there, and abandoned his burden to approach them.

            He obviously recognized MacKenize, and just as obviously was not pleased to see him at the establishment. He looked beyond him at Rupert, assessing him up and down for a long moment, before looking back to Mac. He opened his mouth to say something, but then his gaze drifted back to Giles. His eyes widened in recognition.

            "Ripper!" he exclaimed.

            Rupert was taken aback by the exclamation. He hadn't gone by the name 'Ripper' since his college days. Now, here was this man who obviously knew him by that moniker, but for the life of him he couldn't place him.

            "Theodore," said the main, pointing back to himself.

            Suddenly, it clicked for Rupert. "Razor," he replied. "Teddy 'the Razor' Buchanan." Pieces began to fall into place.

            Long before he had become a watcher; before he had settled into the life of a 'settled' Englishman, Rupert Giles had raised hell, both literally and figuratively. He had been a punk in every sense of the word, although it was before the actual punk music fad had spread throughout the world. Back then it had been the Who and the Doors. Rock music, disaffected youth, whiskey and cigarettes and girls.

            And demons.

            Back then, Rupert had been known as 'Ripper', mainly for his ability to play guitar. He'd also been a member of the cult of Eyghon. Eyghon, the demon, whom they would summon when high and wound and feeling immortal. The magic was like a drug to them all, and summoning Eyghon brought on the magic. 

            Razor had been a member too, although he looked quite a bit different then. He hadn't ever been part of the summoning of Eyghon, which is the only reason he was still alive today. Eyghon had destroyed the others. The years of hard living had not been kind to Teddy Buchanan. Giles smiled as best he could at his old chum. Teddy had been the oldest of them back then, and now he wore every year on his stocky frame as if it were two. 

            "Good to see you, Razor," he managed at last. "Nice place you have," he added.

            Razor simply nodded, glancing back at MacKenzie. "I see now," he muttered. "I see why it has to be here, and _him."_

            Rupert wondered for a moment who Razor was talking about. There was only one person who he could remember that Teddy had ever felt that way about.

            And then the pieces all jumbled together. One person who could do this spell. One person who was tied to Razor and himself. One person whom Razor hated. One person who couldn't be trusted. Rupert didn't bother to look behind him as the footsteps approached.

            "Hello, Ethan," he said. 

            "Ripper, old chum. It's _so_ good to be a free man again."

  



	3. Chapter 3 A Small Matter of Trust

**  
** Chapter 3 

A Small Matter of Trust

_Wednesday, __6:10 PM___

            Rupert didn't turn around to look at his once friend / often enemy – the notorious Ethan Rayne. He looked instead at MacKenzie. "You arranged his release, then?"

            "Aye," said Mac, "it was necessary."

            "Aren't you glad to see me, Ripper?" Ethan said, and Giles finally turned around.

            "Every time I've seen you, you've been trying to destroy me!" he exclaimed.

            "Oh, that bit o' fun in Sunnydale? Please, Ripper, I served my time. I'm reformed now." The last time Rupert had seen Ethan, he was being dragged away by the U.S. Military on the orders of Riley Finn. There had been several times before that, including one Halloween where everyone had turned into whatever their costumes were. Ethan was an anarchist, pure and simple. He used his power, his magic – especially his ability to transform others – in order to create chaos. While he may have served his time in the U.S. penitentiary (and Rupert suspected that MacKenzie had arranged his release before that sentence had been completed), he would never be reformed. He could also never be trusted.

            "Perhaps we should get ourselves a table over here and have this discussion in a bit of privacy." Mac's words left no room for argument. Rupert, Ethan, and he moved over into a corner. "Now then, Ethan lad, let's see what you've got to show us."

* * *

            "I've got something!" exclaimed Analyst (2nd class) Miles Winthrop. He turned in his chair to survey the room, a large open space populated by desks, computers, phones, maps, and very frantic people. The MI-5 operations center was in full swing, all agents called in and placed to work.

            The bee hive of activity vibrated with unsuppressed urgency. Less than two hours before, a bomb had detonated in a London suburb. The highly targeted blast had killed three men inside the truck, but injured no one on the street. Around the corner in an alley, another man lay shot to death; he had been carrying a compact machine gun. Within the building, a flat had been ransacked by another group – one member of which had been shot by Special Section officers when he brandished his gun.

            In the intervening hour, MI-5 had been alerted and then mobilized. This was not a known terrorist group. They were operating – undetected – under their very noses. And it had erupted into violence. Number 10 was not happy, and they were demanding answers.

            Section Chief Roger Crombey had already reached his _very special level of pissed. This was generally reserved for truly severe screw-ups. Most of the staff of entry- and mid-level analysts had only heard of it, tales told in hushed tones in the lunch room. It was obvious that the PM had reached his __very special place as well, and was directing the full energy of his pissedness at Roger Crombey. Roger, likewise, was directing his blasts of vitriol at the staff busily trying to sift enough clues out of the West End carnage._

            Just ten minutes before, he had stormed out of his office after a particular vicious verbal flaying by the PM and announced that, "Whomever of you wishes to still have a job in the morning had better bring me something. NOW!" With that, he had marched back into his office and slammed the door with so much force that it was a wonder that the bullet-proof glass hadn't shattered.

            And so, Analyst (2nd Class) Miles Winthrop breathed a huge sigh of relief after his supervisor had checked his work and patted him on the back. "Looks like you get to show up to work tomorrow," he said, handing the information to one of the agents. Miles managed a weak grin.

            Agent Jonathan Trimble walked over to the Section Chief's office and rapped on the door. Crombey was looking through a file while another Agent, Jenny Thatcher, waited. Crombey looked up with mild irritation, but seeing that it was Jonathan, he waved him in.

            Jonathan entered the office and carefully closed the door behind him. "One of the analysts got something," he said, walking up to the desk.

            "First look at this." Crombey handed him the file. "That's the dead man in the apartment."

            The file contained photos and background on Thomas Bennet, a former British Marine turned mercenary. He had mostly operated in the Balkans and Africa, organizing fighting troops and commando raids. He worked for whoever could afford him, showing no particular ties to any kind of cause or philosophy. He simply did what he was trained to do – kill the enemy. His last known sighting was nearly three years before in Kosovo. He had disappeared after that and had been presumed killed in action. 

            Trimble looked up from the report. "This doesn't hold at all," he said. "Bennet's never operated within the country, and he's never been tied to this kind of operation. He's an open range fighter, not a spy or a terrorist."

            "Exactly our conclusion as well," replied Crombey. "What have you got?"

            "South London phone box, fifty-two minutes after the blast. A call was made to one of the numbers that Rupert Giles had called seven times in the last thirty days." Trimble tapped on the conference table keyboard to bring up a set of images projected onto the far wall. "These were taken by an ATM machine's camera across the way."

            The photos clearly showed Rupert Giles making a phone call. No one around him, no one threatening him. "Looks like our Mister Giles isn't a kidnap victim after all."

            "Who'd he call?" Roger Crombey wasn't liking this at all.

            "Gretta Stevenson, in Sussex. Police are on their way now and we should have a team on the ground there in seven minutes." Trimble hadn't waited for those orders. He knew what needed to be done. A small smile from Crombey was confirmation of that. "We're pulling her records now, but she definitely hasn't been red-flagged."

            "Where are we on Mister Giles?" Crombey asked. Jenny Thatcher answered.

            "He was a long-time employee of the Weber Institute, although it's not clear in what capacity. He worked as, of all things, a middle-school librarian in the United States as part of their 'cultural exchange' program."

"Cultural exchange, my arse," Crobey muttered. 

"His employment with them was terminated three years ago, but then was reinstated with back pay. Quite mysterious. He's traveled back and forth between England and the United States several times. He's never shown up on our radar before this."

"What do we have on the Weber Institute?" Crombey asked. Jenny hesitated, her eyes shifting to Trimble and back to Crombey. "It's all right, Jonathan needs to know."

"They're listed as 'Do Not Investigate'" she stammered. "Queen's Seal," she added. Crombey nearly choked. 

"Bloody Hell!" he exclaimed. "Get Number 10 on the phone, right now. I want this Weber Institute thing opened up."

"That won't be necessary," a voice said from the door. 

"What the – " Jonathan began, but the figure in the doorway held up his hand.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Reginald Turcey. I'm from the Weber Institute. Her Majesty has asked me to cooperate with your investigation." Everyone in the room looked dumbfounded. Reginald Turcey, the Fourth Speaker of the Ring of Arinoth, smiled and entered the office. "Let's see if we can't find Mr. Giles together," he said, then smiled to hide the menace in his eyes.

* * *

            "What makes you think we can trust him?" Rupert asked MacKenzie, glowering at Ethan.

            "Show him," Mac replied. 

            Ethan moved his chair away from the table and pulled up his pants leg. An electronic tracking bracelet was snapped around it. More and more these were used for non-violent criminals, placing them under 'house arrest'. They could serve out their sentence in a highly restricted lifestyle, allowing them only to go to work and home and practically nowhere else. For the benefit of this freedom they were no longer a burden to the government for their room and board. 

            The bracelet locked onto the ankle and couldn't be removed without setting off an alarm. It was worn twenty-four seven, even in the shower. It used GPS to track the prisoner, and could communicate back to the tracking authority wirelessly. It was not a fool-proof system, but it was highly reliable. And while it wasn't real freedom, it sure beat the inside of a prison cell.

            "So, in exchange for this, he's agreed to help us?" Rupert shook his head. "What's to stop him from double-crossing us? There's no telling what he could do with the spell once we're out of sight."

            "Aye, well that," MacKenzie said. "That there is a very special model that I've built myself. I can call it up from anywhere. And if I do, well, let's just say that there's no amount of magic that can stand up to a couple hundred thousand volts." MacKenzie smiled a predatory smile at Ethan. "As long as his spell keeps working, he stays alive. If I even think he's double-crossed us, they'll be using dental records to identify him."

            Everyone looked back and forth across the table at one another. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Rupert didn't think it could get much more desperate than this. They needed Ethan and his magic for no other reason than that they could control Ethan and his magic, at least until he figured out how to circumvent the security measures. There was no question that he would try – he had probably been going through dozens of spell books already trying to find the right method to get him out of this predicament. _It was only a matter of time, thought Giles. _

            It was, if anything, a gamble. MacKenzie was betting that he could get where he needed to go and do what he needed to do before Ethan found a way to get out of his slave chain and stop the spell's effects. MacKenzie was a gambler; Rupert was not. Immediately his mind began to swirl through possibilities. In the time they had, which could be weeks and could be hours, how could he prevent Ethan from double-crossing them? Was there some way he could duplicate the spell, or isolate it from Ethan's control? Nothing was immediately coming to mind, but he kept thinking through the ideas in the back of his mind. There was a way, he was sure of it. He only needed the chaos to stop long enough that he could think through the possibilities. In the meantime, though, Ethan was setting up his components. Rupert pushed the other thoughts to the back of his mind and watched the preparations.

            Ethan set four candles on the table, each one at one of the cardinal compass points. In the center, he placed a small idol of Janus. It had been the Janus idol that had led to all of the problems in Sunnydale. The very thought brought shivers to Rupert's mind – that ghastly Halloween when everyone had become their costumes. Buffy, dressed as a fair maiden, had become completely helpless (and prone to the vapors); Willow, dressed as a ghost, had become insubstantial. Those who had dressed as goblins and demons, though, had become something much more frightful. 

            In front of the Janus idol he placed two packets of dried herbs. Rupert could make out the rosemary, baby's breath, and St. John's wort; there were, however, other ingredients he couldn't immediately identify in the bundle. Each bundle was tied with a purple silk ribbon. 

            Ethan then took out two keys, and slid one into each of the herb bundles. "These will be the keys to the transformation. The symbolism is rather simple, but I really didn't have time to prepare for something more sophisticated." He arched his eyebrows at them, making clear the implied disclaimer. "Now, then, the photos."

            MacKenzie pulled out his wallet and drew out the driver's license. He motioned for Rupert to do the same. They handed Ethan the photo ID's, which he placed under the bundles. All was prepared. Ethan centered himself, drawing long, deep breaths. A silence seemed to settle around him despite the loud punk rock still blaring from the speaker system. Ethan hummed a tuneless drone to himself as he focused his magical energies on the task ahead.

            He began first by invoking each of the protective spirits, symbolized by the four candles. Fire in the East, Water in the South, Wind in the West, and Earth in the North. As he called upon each one to offer its power and protection, the candle lit itself. When he had finished the final invocation, a light glow seemed to surround the table. 

            Gazing into the candle flames, Ethan settled even further into himself. His breathing became shallower, more urgent, until it seemed that he was going to hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness. Before that happened, though, he began a sing-song chant invoking the spirit of Janus. 

            Janus, the two faced god, one looking to the past and one to the future. Such a god also represented the power to change one face into another. And so Ethan requested of the old roman deity – that the face of the wearer of the key be made over in the likeness of the picture – that those who looked at him would see the false face, not the true one. 

            The eyes on the statue of Janus began to glow. Murmurings fell from its stone lips, and with them the keys began to glow. Again Ethan invoked the spirit of the old god, and again the murmurings issued from its stone lips. A third time the ritual was repeated, and this time the keys glowed hotly. Beneath them, the dried herbs charred and began to smolder, the smoke swirling around Janus's fierce eyes. 

            The hypnotic murmur died on Ethan's lips quite abruptly. And then, it was over. The candles faded into insignificance and died completely. The stone head of Janus became simply that, a stone. The glow of the keys subsided until they were simply dull metal once again. 

            With the fading of the spell, the surroundings seemed to drift back into focus. The punk rock music seemed to suddenly jump in volume, although Rupert knew that this was simply the effects of coming out of the enchantment and fully back to the real world. With the sound came the smell of sour beer and water pipe smoke. Rupert and MacKenzie shook themselves. 

            Ethan passed them each a key, now strung with a length of twine. "Put these around your neck," he instructed. "As long as you're wearing them, people will see the men in those photos." To Giles, it was eerily reminiscent of the Amulet of Arinoth, but he complied despite his misgivings. "It has to be kept next to the skin," Ethan added. Both MacKenzie and Rupert dutifully tucked the keys down inside their shirts.

            The effect was instantaneous. Where they once had been, now stood two completely different people. The effect was not just their faces, either. Their body mass appeared proportionally altered, as well. As long as the effect held, they would be disguised from even the most careful visual inspection.

            MacKenzie was now smaller, rounder, and balding. He seemed to be twenty to thirty years older, although still spry enough. Grey hair stood around the rim of his pate, not quite laying flat. All semblance to his Scottish heritage was gone; the figure he had become was clearly Saxon built.

            "We're good now, right?" Ethan asked MacKenzie – or the figure that stood where MacKenzie had once been.

            "Three days," the figure – MacKenzie – responded. The voice was older, more frail – but the accent was still strong. "If this holds up for three days, I'll deactivate my trap." He nodded once, firmly. While the face and body might seem to be someone else, the body language was all Mac.

            There being nothing further to say, they left.

* * *

            "Hold up, Jonathan," Crombey called as the staff walked out of the briefing area. Jonathan Trimble waited until everyone else had exited and then closed the door. He turned and glared at Crombey, clearly upset that Jenny Thatcher had been given the lead on tracking down Rupert Giles and former Captain MacKenzie. It wasn't that he thought that Jenny was incapable of the action, but he thought that in this case the 'A list' was required. That was clearly _his team. Crombey, however, had allowed no discussion on the matter. Jenny and her agents were to work with Turcey; there were other issues that required Trimble's attention._

            What those issues were, Jonathan didn't know. There was nothing else that had happened in the last two hours that could possibly compare with this threat. Besides, there was certainly quite a bit of _this_ that wasn't adding up. Reginald Turcey had given them his story, but Jonathan wasn't buying.. 

The Weber Institute guarded the British Isles against non-traditional threats. What those threats were, Reginald was not at liberty to say. Rupert Giles had been one of their agents, but he had gone rogue. He was being aided by a former SAS commando, Captain MacKenzie. Together, they had stolen something valuable from the Institute, and they were hiding it. The Institute had put Rupert under surveillance in order to try and recover it, but he and MacKenzie had escaped them – killing four of their agents in the process. The Institute couldn't say what it was they had stolen, but it was important and it was dangerous, and they needed to find Rupert Giles in order to recover it. Captain MacKenzie, on the other hand, was expendable.

Several things were immediately suspect to Trimble. If Giles and MacKenzie were sophisticated enough to have stolen something as valuable as they say, and bloodthirsty enough to elude their surveillance with bombs and guns, how had he come under their surveillance in the first place? Giles had made no attempt to disguise his identity in any way; he had even rented the flat under his actual name. This was not the action of a master thief and a commando.

More importantly, Turcey had been too evasive on the nature of the threat. What threats did the Weber Institute protect us from? What had Giles stolen, and what kind of threat did it pose? Every time they tried to get any sort of detail, Turcey had invoked the Queen's Seal and shut down the conversation.

It seemed to Jonathan Trimble that they were going after two men with very little evidence, which wasn't too much of an issue in his mind. More importantly, they were going out with very little concept of what kind of threat they might be facing – that was a recipe for disaster. And Turcey's insistence on MacKenzie's _expendability was even more suspect. Jonathan didn't trust a word the man was saying. However, Jonathan was not one to argue in front of the others. _

            He faced Crombey and waited. Crombey, for his part, rubbed eyes in frustration and gestured to a chair. Jonathan sat down. The moment began to grow uncomfortable, and then there was a discreet knock at the door. Another one of the agents stepped in and handed a folded piece of paper to Crombey, then turned and walked out without a word. Crombey examined the note and nodded.

            "Alright, Jon, give me your honest assessment," he said.

            "The whole thing stinks to high heavens," Trimble replied immediately.

            "I agree," Crombey replied. He gestured to the note he just received. "So does Number 10. The PM has authorized us to ignore the Queen's Seal." He waited for Jonathan to absorb the import of that statement. If their suspicions did not prove out, they would all face disgrace. Or worse. "While Jenny is entertaining Turcey and looking for his missing agent, your team is going to find out what the hell this Weber Institute is up to. But no one is to know – this is top secret, even inside this office. _Especially_ inside this office." With Reginald Turcey officially 'cooperating' with the investigation, Jonathan would need to run his operation secretly right under the man's nose.

            "I was shutting down the Heathrow investigation, but I can use it as a cover for this."

            "Good thinking," replied Crombey. "Now, I don't have to tell you, if the PM hadn't approved this it would be grounds for Treason."

            "It's a good thing he approved it then." Jonathan eyed the note Crombey had received, sitting next to him on the table.

            Crombey picked it up and dropped into the small shredder in one corner of the room. The machine whined as the note was destroyed. Crombry turned back to him. "All the same, let's make sure none of the MPs know. All right?"

            Jonathan nodded once. He knew the unspoken truth. The PM hadn't approved the investigation. They were definitely operating outside the law. But Crombey was taking the potential blame for it all; Jonathan was operating under the _belief_ that it had been approved, which officially absolved him of any culpability. But he knew the truth, and so he would do whatever he needed to in order to make sure that the investigation went on in absolute secrecy. He would protect Crombey just like Crombey was protecting him.

            Jonathan Trimble left the room to go commit treason.

  



	4. Chapter 4 The Hunter and the Hunted

**  
** Chapter 4 

The Hunter and The Hunted

_Wednesday, __6:58 PM___

            Jenny Thatcher held up two photos, one of Giles and one of MacKenzie. "We have two suspects, Rupert Giles and Collum MacKenzie." Her voice cracked just slightly. This was the most important investigation she'd ever run, and she wasn't about to screw it up. She was still new in her position as a lead agent, younger than most of the others. Some said it was family connections, and so she was constantly trying to prove herself. 

She had been shocked when Crombey had assigned the case to her. She had expected it to go to Jonathan Trimble. He was the 'golden boy' in Thames House. He was only a few years older than her, but his record was impressive. He'd taken on the toughest cases and always come out on top. But this was a vote of confidence in her, so she was determined to make it count.

She adjusted her petite frame a bit, nervous at addressing the combined teams in the office. She brushed away a lock of her long blonde hair that had fallen forward. Seeing everyone staring at her, she cleared her throat and continued. "They are considered armed and dangerous. They have a one hundred fifty minute head start on us. I want these photos distributed to all law enforcement agencies. Begin vehicle and mass transit inspections immediately."

She paused, surveying the group once again. Jonathan emerged from the conference room and walked over to his team, clustered at the back. He tapped them and motioned for them to follow. They left the meeting and headed back towards his office. She was slightly miffed about this – her first chance leading the combined teams and Trimble was pulling his people out. 

Quickly she reshuffled her assignments. "Bobby, Theresa – you liaise with the local agencies. Get them on the ball right now." The two analysts she'd indicated nodded their understanding. Satisfied, she turned to a cluster of agents sitting to her left. "We need to go through everything in Rupert's apartment. We need some clue as to where they might've gone." More nods. So far, so good.

She looked over at a clump of analysts which included young Miles Winthrop. "I need scenarios on they're probable course of action. Did they run or go to ground? Work them up, and stay on the phone contacts. Trace every call to and from anyone he's been in contact with in the last ninety days."

She took a deep breath before continuing. "Fifty-two minutes after the explosion, Giles made a call to a home is Sussex. Minutes later, the home was vacated and we don't know where they went. Mr. Turcey," she indicated the gentleman, who nodded, "believes that they were involved in the theft. That's our best lead so far. Tom, I want you and Benjamin to be ready to assist them with what they find. Start a search right now for anything you can find on whoever was there." She nodded, looking around at the team. "Our best option right now is to contain our fugitives until we have a firmer lead on where they might be going. Let's be about it."

The final pronouncement was met with a flurry of activity. Everyone shifted to their tasks and began pouring their energy into finding the two fugitives. The furious tap-tap of keyboards quickly filled the room as urgent conversations began throughout. Everyone had a task to do.

Jenny Thatcher made her way across the room to Jonathan Trimble's office. He was in urgent discussion with four of his team members. She tapped gently and he looked up. He gestured her in.

"Um, Jon," she began, "I noticed that you pulled your team out of the meeting. I really need your support on this."

"Sorry, Jen," the young agent replied. "Something came up on the Heathrow investigation. Crombey wants us on it. Top priority."

Jenny nodded, somewhat disappointedly. She knew how important the Heathrow investigation was. It was, indeed, a top priority. She nodded absently. "All right, well, let me know if you can spare some cycles to help. Okay?"

"Will do," replied Trimble. When she'd left, he exhaled a long breath. 

"Okay Jonny, what do we need to do?" asked Jerome Barrington. The former college athlete had a mind even more powerful than his impressive body. 

"We need to get out from under Jen and Mr. Turcey. We can use the ruse that we're going to Heathrow, but we'll need to leave at least one person behind." Darla, his key coordinator, nodded. She knew that would be her role. Jonathan nodded back in appreciation. "However, I'm inclined to leave you, too, Jerome. I need to know what Jen is doing, and the easiest way to do that is for you to assist her. I need everything you have on this, Jerome – not just what you see, but what you suspect, as well."

Jerome nodded. "Can do, Jonny."

"Okay then, the rest of you are with me. We need someplace with secure computer access, but outside prying eyes. Thoughts?"

Darla spoke. "There's a terminal in the records room. I can make sure you're not disturbed."

Jonathan nodded. "Sounds good. Jerome, come with me. Let's make it clear that I'm doing her a big favor by leaving you here. The rest of you, make like you're heading out. Let's go."

Jonathan's team moved into action.

* * *

            "Blockade up ahead," MacKenzie muttered. "Time to see if this disguise works." The traffic had slowed to a low crawl as officers looked inside each vehicle. They had narrowed the traffic getting onto the M4 to one lane, and an officer on each side examined the driver and passengers of each vehicle. Dusk had begun to settle and rain had begun to fall. The officers stood shining their flashlights into the passing vehicles. 

            Giles and MacKenzie both held their breath as they crept up in the line. They pulled aside the officers, had the lights shined into the vehicle to see their faces, and then they were waved through. The disguise spell had worked perfectly, as near as they could tell.

            They pulled onto the highway, accelerating into traffic. The rain worsened; the rhythm of the slap of the wipers became the only sound that broke up the monotony of the hum of the wheels on the road. The stress of the day quickly overcame Rupert, and he quite unintentionally fell asleep in the passenger's seat.

            In his sleep, his subconscious drifted through all the doubts assailing him. Image after image sprung up in his mind. Evil Willow, bringing about the destruction of the Earth, her black eyes and white skin glistening like an overexposed photograph. Her laugh was terrible – cold, soulless. Behind it he heard the dry cackle of an old man, like the creaking of timbers in an old house. His mind knew it was Arinoth's laugh, although he couldn't say how it was he knew. 

            The dark witch rose large in his dreams, pulling everything to her in a swirling chaos of darkness. One by one he saw his friends caught up in her maelstrom, the force breaking their bodies like old dolls. _Crack, crack, crack, the sound echoed in his ears like a hammering from somewhere far outside this reality. _Crack, crack, crack_, he heard again, and somehow in the laughing chaos of the dark witch, he swam towards it._

            Higher and higher he swam, through the maelstrom, struggling for all he was worth, dodging the broken bodies of friends and enemies. He could hear it more distinctly now – not a cracking sound. More of a knocking sound. _Knock, knock, knock_ he heard.

            Giles woke abruptly, disoriented for a moment by the vividness of the dream. A bright light shown to his left, blinding him a bit. Knuckles rapped on the window once more – knock, knock, knock. As he began rolling down his window, he realized that they were no longer traveling, although the sounds of the highway could be heard distinctly in the distance. 

            On the outside of his window, a British police officer stood with his light shining in. He dropped it slightly when he saw Rupert awake. "Sorry to disturb you, lad," the officer said, his voice giving all indication that he wasn't the least bit sorry. "We've orders to check every car. Looking for some suspects in the bombing this afternoon." He held up the light once again, examining Rupert's magically altered face. "Besides, there's no sleeping in the car park."

            "Of course, officer," Rupert replied. He looked around, unsure of where he was. It was full dark and the rain was driving down. MacKenzie was not in the car, and for one terrible moment he thought he might've been abandoned for some unknown reason. "My friend …" Rupert began, waving generally in the direction of the driver's seat, but in his still half-asleep state could not seem to find the rest of the words he was looking for.

            "Can I help you?" a voice said from behind the officer. The Scottish tinge to the voice raised Rupert's spirits immensely. The officer turned, shining his light behind him, and Rupert could just see around him. The altered form of MacKenzie stood there holding a carry-out tray with two cups of tea and a spot of food wrapped in some waxed paper. "Just grabbing a quick bite." He offered the carry-out tray as evidence.

            The officer shined the light on his face one more time, and then dropped it. "All right, gents," he said, a slight hint of disappointment in his voice. He had hoped to be able to at least write a citation for sleeping in the car park, but it was clear that while the passenger had been asleep, the driver was well awake and had only been away from the vehicle for a few moments. "Carry on, then." He walked off without any further word, his light shining into the other cars beyond theirs as he walked past. 

            MacKenzie came around and climbed in the jeep, handing the carry-out tray to Rupert. "Spell seems to be working," he said as he slammed the door. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed one of the paper cups of tea and one of the sandwiches in waxed paper from the tray and began to eat.

            Rupert followed suit. After the first bite he realized that he was actually quite hungry. The two quickly consumed the sandwiches in silence, pausing only to take sips of marginally acceptable tea. In moments, the food was gone, and Rupert stretched a bit, trying to get the kinks out of his neck and back.

            "A nice spot of food, a bit of tea, and right like that, Bob's your uncle." While the food and tea may have made things somewhat better, Rupert wasn't sure he was quite ready to go quite that far. "Good thing, too. We've got trouble."

            Rupert stopped in mid-sip, his eyes casting right at MacKenzie. "What kind of trouble?" he asked.

            "They've made both you and I, and they're listing us as armed and dangerous. You're no longer a victim, you're a wanted terrorist."

            "Good God!" Rupert exclaimed. "How could that have happened?" The thoughts running through his mind were quite disturbing. What if they decided to shoot first and ask questions later? What if he couldn't explain what was really going on? How could MacKenzie have so totally miscalculated?

            "I'm not sure, but my boss will know. In the meantime, it's slow going between here and there. They've set up a lot of checkpoints looking for us." MacKenzie started the engine and pulled the old jeep back out onto the roadway and headed towards the highway. "As long as this spell holds up, though, we should be able to get where we're going and get some answers."

            Rupert fervently hoped so.

* * *

            Jonathan Trimble and his team looked up from the work table of the records room at Thames House. Alicia Sommerset fingered her service pistol, but Jonathan shook his head. He was tensed, ready to strike if need be, but only non-lethal force would be used to hide their activities … for the moment.

            However, it was Darla who came around the corner. Everyone breathed a bit easier. "I told Jen that as long as you were in transit, I didn't have much to do, so I could do her running down here."

            "Good thinking," Jonathan replied. "Get the files she needs and get back before she notices you've been gone too long."

            "I've a few minutes," she replied. "What have you found?"

            Jonathan nodded to Eric, the newest member of his team. Eric looked over his notes to organize his thoughts, and then began speaking. "Well it's like this," he said. "The Weber Institute is operating under a very old charter of the Queen's Seal. Literally hundreds of years. I was able to tie the current incarnation as the Weber Institute to some historical documents without raising any alarms. We're not going to be able to get anywhere querying directly, but we were able to put together enough from their public documents to tie it to one of the old charters. You're not going to believe what it was."

            "Don't keep me waiting, what is it?"

            "I was just getting to that when you walked in. It's magic," he replied.

            "Magic? Are you off your feed or something?" Alicia Somerset rolled her eyes at him. "That's mad."

            "I'm telling you, the original documents of Seal refer to a group called the Watchers. They were to help guard the world against the misuse of magic, the actions of demons, vampires, and such. They aid someone called The Slayer, and guard and train all the potential Slayers around the world."

            "One minute," replied Darla. She pulled out her PDA and called up a document. "Jerome slipped to this me just before I came down. It's a list of what was found in Rupert Giles's flat. Magic books. _Fragenheim's__ Grimoir, The Hierarchy of the Demonic Realm, stuff like that." She scrolled a few moments more. "Here it is – __The Watcher Histories."_

            "Good," Jonathan replied. "Send that to my account when you get upstairs. For now, get those files she requested and get going." He waited patiently while Darla complied and left. "What do you think?" he asked.

            "It's mad, like I said," Alicia spoke up with vehemence. 

            "I agree," Jonathan replied, noting that Eric clearly did not. "However, it's a pretty strong connection. Whether or not _we_ believe in magic and demons, it seems that Mr. Giles – and by extension the Weber Institute – does." He held up his hand to forestall any protests from his staff. "More importantly, they've got a Queen's Seal to prove it. That gives us a link, but since we already had that – he worked for them, after all – I'm not sure that it really tells us anything." He paused long enough for everyone's logical brain to grasp what he just said. Then he turned to Alicia. "What have you got on Mr. Turcey?"

            "Not a lot, but some." He clicked on the terminal to bring up several surveillance photos. "Here he is about two years ago, meeting with Sir Mark Blackwell."

            "He was head of Military oversight then." Eric habitually kept track of what committee every MP had served on.

            Alicia nodded, then continued. "They met several times. Then he began with Brigadier General Atwater. That went on for several months, March through May of 2001. Then Atwater had that massive coronary, and Sir Mark moved to the foreign office."

            "Now there's a coincidence," Jonathan muttered. His team looked up at him expectantly. "May 2001 was a very busy month. Captain MacKenzie went AWOL that month, and about the same time Sir Radcliffe Holm was assassinated in a terrorist bombing."

            "Do you think there's a connection?" Eric asked.

            "Let's find out," Trimble responded. He thought for a moment. "Alicia, find out what Blackwell was assigned to when he moved to the foreign office. I don't care how. Eric, track down Captain MacKenzie's last set of orders. I want to know what he was supposed to be doing."

            "That will require breaking into the RAF files. They won't like that."

            "Can you do it?" Jonathan needed that information.

            "From here, probably. I can use the override codes and access their personnel records. Possibly the mission records. But that's going to set off alarms."

            "Well then, I better see if Crombey can shut them off before someone notices." Jonathan picked up the phone while the other two got to work.

  



	5. Chapter 5 Discoveries

**  
** Chapter 5 

Discoveries

_Thursday, __2:15 AM___

            They followed a circuitous route through the night, avoiding what checkpoints they could, and trusting in the magic amulets when they couldn't. MacKenzie also double-backed several times, took random turns, and sometimes just came to a complete stop, shutting down the jeep entirely. By the time they were headed out a dirt track into the countryside, it was clear that were not being followed.

            That had been near midnight. They followed muddied tracks and routes that barely qualified as sheep paths for another two hours. About two in the morning, they finally arrived at a remote farmhouse that was as far from civilization as they conceivably could get.

            The exterior of the house gave every appearance of being deserted. The porch sagged precipitously; the paint color was indeterminable. The two men made their way through the overgrown brush to the front door, which opened easily to MacKenzie's touch. Passing through the threshold, Rupert could feel the wards that were in place.

            Rupert's skin tingled as he passed through. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. More than that, his own inner sight was alive with the astral colors at play in that entrance. It was clear to him that anyone not invited into that home would not be allowed to enter. Anyone attempting to force their way would find their life forfeit.

            Inside, MacKenzie lit several oil lamps. The interior was a direct contrast to the exterior. That was not to say that it was perfectly kept up. The paint was equally faded here, and there was nothing resembling decoration anywhere. But it was immaculately clean and well ordered. The few bits of furniture were solid if worn, the upholstery showing signs of age.

            MacKenzie handed him a lamp and led him through the front room to the hall and up the stairs. They passed several doors, all closed, until reaching one which MacKenzie opened. He gestured for Rupert to enter the bedroom.

            It was simply furnished – a bed, a wash stand, a chair and a table. In the fireplace was a layer of coals which succeeded in keeping the chill off the room. The bed was unmade, but a neat pile of sheets, blankets, and a pillow lay across the foot of it. Rupert walked in and looked around. 

            "Sleep here," MacKenzie said. "We'll see you in the morning."

            "You're boss, is he here? Perhaps we should talk now." Despite his eagerness, the strain of the day was obviously beginning to weigh to him.

            "We'll talk in the morning," MacKenzie said, more firmly this time. "Trust me." With that he turned and closed the door.

            Rupert looked around and, lacking any other options, quickly made the bed and climbed in. He was asleep within minutes.

* * *

            At the back of the house, MacKenzie tapped on the door to the library before entering. He didn't wait for an answer. If he wasn't allowed in, the door wouldn't open. The knock was a courtesy, nothing more. He tried the antique brass handle and found that it twisted easily. He opened the door and entered.

            The only light in the study came from the fireplace to the right. There were two stuffed leather chairs flanking it, with a small table between them. Set out on the table was a liberal dose of whisky in a cut crystal tumbler and an unlit cigar. Mac didn't need to check to see that his employer was sitting in the chair with its back to him. He walked around them and took the other chair.

            He settled himself comfortably, lit the cigar, and drew deeply from it. It was a pleasure that had become far too rare. He lifted the glass and drank a long swallow. The first flavor was peat, followed after by vanilla and anise. It mixed exquisitely with the taste of the cigar. He took another draw, and then finally focused his attention on the man in the other chair.

            Sir Radcliffe Holm smiled at MacKenzie. He took pleasure in seeing him enjoy the rewards that had been set out for him. They were small things, trifles really. But the rewards in this job were few and far between, and he wanted Captain MacKenzie to enjoy them.

            He still thought of the man as _Captain_ MacKenzie. In Sir Radcliffe's mind, MacKenzie was still fulfilling his role as an SAS commando. And in this instance, what Sir Radcliffe thought really did matter. Until his 'assassination' a year and half ago, he had been the Director of Special Projects for the British military. But the rise of Arinoth had changed all that. The evil sorcerer had too many connections in both the military and the government.

            There was no way to oppose him openly. So, when Arinoth attempted to kill Sir Radcliffe, he took the opportunity to disappear. As long as Arinoth thought he was dead – and MacKenzie neutralized – they would be free to move against him. It had taken a year and a half of maneuvering, but the opportunity had finally come for them. 

            That opportunity was Rupert Giles and whatever it was that he was protecting. It had forced Arinoth's hand; it was forcing him to rush. And forcing him to rush was, hopefully, forcing him to make mistakes. Time would tell, though, whether or not Sir Radcliffe and his small band of supporters were going to be able to exploit those errors, and bring about the downfall of Arinoth once and for all.

            There was no need for them to discuss the current situation. Sir Radcliffe was well aware of all that had transpired. Not the details, no – but those were for MacKenzie to handle. Had there been anything that was beyond MacKenzie's ability, he would have been told before now. Mac was a professional, and Sir Radcliffe relied on him to be such.

            MacKenzie finished the whisky and the cigar, and then looked to Sir Radcliffe expectantly. The reward had been consumed – and enjoyed. But now it was time for instructions.

            "Get some sleep. I'll interview Ripper in the morning." He waited for questions.

            "We've been made by MI-5, as you thought we might. How will this impact our plans?" MacKenzie knew that he didn't need to ask these questions, but Sir Radcliffe liked to see what he was thinking about.

            "The Fourth Speaker has entered directly into the conflict, as I thought he might. It is important that the disguise spell you obtained continue to shield you. But even if it doesn't, our plans remain the same." He sipped his own glass of claret. "However, there's a wildcard in the midst." MacKenzie's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't interrupt. "Roger Crombey has been more foresighted than I had credited him for. He's assigned one of his teams to investigate the Weber Institute. If they can pierce the veil that's been spread around it, we may be able to rely on them for allies."

            "That's a big 'if'," MacKenzie replied. It wasn't a criticism, it was a simple assessment of the situation. He was sure that Sir Radcliffe had reached that conclusion on his own, but he voiced the statement anyway.

            "Well, I was able to assist their investigation somewhat. Records that had been previously buried suddenly came available to them." Sir Radcliffe smiled mischievously.

            "Won't that tip our hand to Arinoth?" MacKenzie queried. Their success to date had been completely dependent on their anonymity. They had refrained from using their former contacts and privileges to fight Arinoth. The enemy's fingers ran deep, and any misstep would signal that Sir Radcliffe was still alive, and MacKenzie still in play. That could prove truly fatal to them both.

            "I used the _old_ network," Sir Radcliffe replied. "There is no way that it could be traced back to me. Just like your blue Range Rover."

            MacKenzie snorted but said nothing. He did lift his empty glass inquiringly. Sir Radcliffe barked a laugh, but pointed to a cabinet in the back of the room. MacKenzie got up and refilled his glass, and then took himself to bed.

* * *

            Jerome and Darla joined the rest of the team just after two in the morning in the records room. They had nearly half and hour before Jonathan joined them. In that time, they managed to compare their notes and come to some startling conclusions. They were all grinning like Cheshire cats when Trimble finally arrived.

            Jonathan stopped in the dim light and surveyed his team, a worried look crossing his face. "Have you gone soft in the head or something?" he asked. They shook their heads, and invited him to sit down. "I take it this is good news."

            Jerome took the lead for the team. He was the most senior of them, next to Jonathan. He had led the discussion prior to their boss's arrival. His remarkable mind had quickly begun to codify the information and come up with the sequence of questions and answers that led to their startling conclusions.

            "I'm not sure if it's good news, but it's certainly interesting. How do you feel about coincidences?" Jerome smiled deviously.

            "I don't trust them. What have you got?" Jonathan's eyes were alight. He could already smell their prey.

            "Let's do it sequentially." Jerome took a moment to organize his thoughts. "Two years ago, Turcey begins making his way through the Military procurement teams. Eventually, he makes his way to Brigadier General Atwater by way of Sir Blackwell. Next thing you know, Atwater forms himself up a special team under the direction of Major Tom Sheffield. Special Projects gets wind of it – "

            "Sir Radcliffe was Director of Special Projects," Jonathan filled in. 

            "Right. And by Sir Radcliffe's order, Captain Collum MacKenzie is assigned to Sheffield's team. What their orders are, we don't know. But we have some interesting suspicions."

            "This was MacKenzie's last known orders?" he asked.

            "Yes. And guess what happens? Sheffield and his team – minus MacKenzie – end up arrested and disavowed after an operation in the United States." Jerome smiled devilishly.

            "The U.S.? What are we doing sending a Special Projects team to the U.S.?" Jonathan was shaking his head.

            "It gets better," Jerome replied, rubbing his hands together. "Guess who gets assigned to foreign office to hush the whole thing up?"

            "Sir Blackwell." It wasn't a guess. He'd known the answer as soon as the question had been asked. "We have a botched job in the United States by team organized by Atwater and covered up by Blackwell. Interesting."

            "You haven't heard anything yet," Jerome replied. "According to the foreign office records, MacKenzie went AWOL during that mission and _caused it to fail."_

            "What? You're kidding. That was in the foreign office records?"

            "Well, it was in an expunged record. But, interestingly, a mistake on a computer file restoration earlier today got it back. No place obvious, but somewhere that Eric was able to come across it." Jerome held up his hand to forestall more questions. "Now, in that file was some confidential communiqués from the United States State Department. Sheffield was accused of kidnapping and attempted murder – of a U.S. Congressman." Jonathan's eyes had gone wide. Assassination of a U.S. Congressman was nearly unthinkable. "Yes," Jerome continued. "The attempt was made in Sunnydale, California, where, interestingly, a Mr. Rupert Giles ran a magic store."

            Jonathan sat back, holding up his hand. He needed a moment to digest what was going being said. "So Mr. Giles works for the Weber Institute. That self-same institute presumably arranges through a Brigadier General to assassinate a U.S. Congressman with an SAS commando team. One member of that team, Collum MacKenzie, hand picked by Sir Radcliffe Holm, stops the assassination and then goes AWOL. Sir Radcliffe gets assassinated, Brigadier Atwater has a sudden, fatal coronary, and Blackwell suddenly moves over to the foreign office to shush it all up." 

            Jerome Smiled. "And the self-same Captain MacKenzie shows up in London and 'liberates' Mr. Giles from being surveiled by the Weber Institute. Then the institute immediately shows up and claims he stole something from them, and begs us to make sure that MacKenzie is terminated and Mr. Giles turned over to them. Preferably without us doing too much questioning of either one of them."

            Jonathan absorbed it all for several long moments. It was almost too much to comprehend. That such a far ranging conspiracy of two separate factions could've worked its way through the government was bad enough. That it was likely responsible for two suspicious deaths – one a Brigadier General and one a military director – and had still gone undetected was unthinkable. What was quickly becoming clear was that the Reginald Turcey was trying to concoct another cover-up. 

            "Any other coincidences I should know about?" Jonathan asked wearily.

            "Well, we know that the Weber Institute is into magic. And so is Mr. Giles – he ran a magic store in the U.S. and had all those magic books in his flat. Well, guess what we found out about Gretta Stevenson?" Jerome waited in anticipation. He actually licked his lips. "She's a witch. She has an entire coven of witches. And she disappeared with her entire coven as soon as Rupert called."

            Jonathan nodded. "All right, people," he started, then paused. "We're all tired, but the rest of this agency is out trying to get Giles and MacKenzie. I think it's clear that Turcey is trying to get us to do his dirty work for him, so that means we don't sleep until we find them first. If I'm right, and the Weber Institute has already been involved in the murders of two public figures, then we _cannot rest until we stop them." He looked at his clearly exhausted team. "We'll sleep in shifts," he relented. "Alicia and Darla first, four hours. Jerome and Eric can take a turn after that. In the meantime, we keep cracking on this. I want to know where Giles and MacKenzie have disappeared to, and I want to know what it is that Mr. Turcey and his cohorts want so badly."_

            The team nodded. They all knew that they were going out on a limb. If they managed to get to Giles and MacKenzie first, they were going to hide the pair from the rest of MI-5 until they got to the bottom of their own investigation. That would put them at odds with their own coworkers. It didn't bode well for them, no matter what the outcome. 

            But Jonathan Trimble was determined. And his team would follow him into anything. He only hoped he knew what he was doing.

* * *

            In the west of England, in a once great manor house, an old man sat and brooded. He was far older than his appearance indicated. He was … ancient. He was closer now to gaining absolute power than he had been in nearly a thousand years. He wasn't about to let Collum MacKenzie take that from him.

            He had once tracked MacKenzie carefully, especially after their defeat in Los Angeles. The loss of Sheffield and his team had been a blow, but losing the Slayer had been a knockout punch. He burned for revenge against MacKenzie for the role he played in upsetting that plan. However, revenge could come in due time. He was very, very patient.

            After the L.A. operation, MacKenzie had dropped from sight. Besides, plans had needed to be rebuilt. He lost track of MacKenzie, intending to catch up with him later. He had other things to think about, to care about. He needed to rebuild his plans for achieving power. He waited. He watched.

            And he saw Willow. Her anger, her vengeance. She was far and away the most powerful witch he'd ever encountered. And there was a spot missing from the Ring. Willow had defeated the Seventh Speaker, had caused her death. If she could be turned, made to take her place in the Ring, he would be unstoppable.

            But he had lost track of _her_, as well. Rupert Giles had hidden her well, but he had been close to finding her. Close, until MacKenzie had turned up again. All this time, while he had dismissed him, MacKenzie had, in fact, been stalking them. He had continued to hunt them, to search for a vulnerable place in the organization. And he had found it. 

            MacKenzie had struck them when they were so close to finding Willow – of finding the key, at last, to ultimate power. He had struck them and crippled them. But the Ring was striking back. Indeed, with MI-5 on their side, MacKenzie would not be long on this Earth.

            Arinoth smiled at this, and then went back to his brooding.

  



	6. Chapter 6 Puzzle Pieces

**  
** Chapter 6 

Puzzle Pieces

_Thursday, __5:33 AM___

            Willow Rosenberg woke slowly, the gossamer dawn light drifting lazily though the seams between weathered boards. The light, if it could be called that, was still merely a hint of what the sunrise would eventually be. The shadows around her were still quite deep and dark. She blinked several times, driving back the tears which were always just on the edge of falling.

            The bite of cold touched her deeply. It had rained last night, and the temperature had dropped as well. Her muscles protested as she huddled deeper into her sleeping bag and began to shiver. Stilling her breathing, she could still hear a faint _drip, drip_ of the water coming off the eaves.

            She let the breath go and inhaled deeply, taking in the sharp scent of aged hay and older wood, rusting iron and stagnant water. This was, she reflected, the first time she'd ever slept in a barn. The hay was quite comfy, but it tended to make her nose itch. She sniffled a bit, then closed her red-rimmed eyes once again to try and return to sleep. The effort was fruitless, though.

            Willow was awake, and with the waking came the bone-deep sense of desperation that had followed her for so long. Tara was gone – she was never coming back to her. The tears began to fall again. First, she cried for the loss of her lover. But then, as the mental movie played once more in her mind, she cried for the loss of her own soul.

            She hadn't lost it completely, but that was of little consequence. In the grief and rage following Tara's senseless death, she had let evil consume her. She had drawn every bit of dark power to her in order to seek revenge. She'd had her revenge – part of it, at least. She'd killed Warren, the man who had killed Tara. Actually, she'd flayed him – one flip of her hand had stripped him of his skin. His agony had been palpable, and … _delicious_. She'd reveled in his pain; she'd gloried in his desperation. She had been lost to everyone, including herself. 

            And the madness that ensued had driven her to try to destroy the world. The entire planet – kablooey. It scared her still, not so much that she had tried, but knowing how close she'd come. She had within her the power. She could annihilate the planet, or anyone on it. She could become the Queen of a damned world, if she so chose.

            None of that, however, would bring Tara back. None of it would matter. 

            No one had been able to stop her. Not Giles, with the power loaned to him by this coven. Not the Slayer. No one. She couldn't be stopped. But she could be _reached_. And that's what Xander had done. He'd reached her. Xander Harris, her best friend since kindergarten, the only one in their intrepid band with no supernatural powers or background, had saved the world. Not by stopping her, but by reaching her.

            In the end, she'd collapsed: broken, grieving, and empty. She had much to atone for. Worse still, she had proven her power. She had proven that not only could she command force on a nearly galactic scale, but that she couldn't control it. It would consume her if she used it. Which is how she'd ended up here.

            Well, not here in the barn, but here in England. Giles had taken her from Sunnydale and brought her to Gretta Stevenson and her coven. It was the same coven that had loaned Giles their powers to try and combat her. And reluctantly, Gretta has taken on the task of trying to teach her. She was here to learn how to control her power.

            Madame LaFusce, the rogue watcher who had been a key player in their battle (and almost defeat) with the Ring of Arinoth had said that if Willow had been born here, in England, she would've been trained in the proper use of her magic. Instead, being born in America ('the colonies' as she referred to it) had left her wild and undisciplined. What she should've been learning since puberty she was now trying to force into a few months. The only other choice was, perhaps, to have her powers stripped.

            At this point, Willow was okay with that option. She figured that if she didn't have any power, she couldn't hurt anyone ever again. Giles, however, was against it. That power didn't just 'go away'. It went _somewhere_, into _someone's possession. It was difficult to control what happened to it, and that made the process very risky. _

            Further, the spell was very dangerous, both to Willow and to the casters. The risk of psychic injury to Willow was very high. Worse, though, was the risk that her power might fight back. Even if she didn't want it to, the magic inside her might … react. And that reaction could be devastating to everyone.

            Giles had, instead, argued long and hard to allow Willow to be trained. She had already become evil, 'gone dark', once. In the minds of some that made her a severe risk for becoming dark once again, but Giles argued the opposite. Willow was a good person who had seen the dark side and was forever haunted by it. She would resist the temptation, the pull, with all her might. She would dampen the power, deny it if need be, to keep from going there again. On the other hand, putting this power in the hands of someone untried would almost assuredly guarantee that they would be called down the dark path before they even knew it. While it was a risk that Willow might go dark again, in the hands of someone else it was a certainty.

            Some had been swayed, slightly; however, it hadn't been enough to convince them. But there were other discussions, Willow knew. She hadn't been allowed to be part of them, but Giles had told her. The community of witches at large knew that there were great things afoot: momentous things. The power had to be harnessed, had to be brought to bear for the power of good. Everything from the stars to portents to prophecies pointed that there was something very dark growing, moving – and that it would eventually lead to either a cataclysm … or a profound change in the very nature of the Slayer. 

            Had Willow been anyone else, she would have still been stripped of her powers. But they all knew about her closeness to the Buffy – the Slayer. Her power needed to be close to the Slayer, and the only way to assure that was to make sure that she kept it. Some took it as a sign that the most powerful wicca in a millennium came part and parcel with the Slayer. Others, though less inclined to see the hand of destiny in it, were practical enough to grant the logic of it.

            And so, the magic community at large had voted to allow her to be trained. And Gretta Stevenson and her coven had gotten the job. It was not a _plum_ assignment. To begin with, they were all scared of her. They tried their best to make her feel welcome, to make her feel comfortable, but their own fear rose off them like a mist. Willow could sense the whispers behind her back, and the desperation in the lessons. Teaching her was like trying to teach a ticking nuclear weapon sitting in your living room.

            And there were other considerations, as well. Everything about her training, about her power, about herself, had been kept from the Watchers as much as possible. Giles knew that there were still elements in the group that could not be trusted. He made every attempt to maintain the strictest secrecy about the decision making process. Even more than that, though, had been any information about Gretta. 

            Only a handful of people knew that it was Gretta Stevenson who was training Willow. That had been kept on the strictest need-to-know basis. Everyone knew that it was vital that her location be kept secret. There were too many leaks in the watchers, and possibly even in the other covens. Willow was very powerful and very vulnerable right now. It was imperative that they keep her from being misused.

            So, on top of all the various concerns, Gretta and her coven had to maintain secrecy. In addition to having to watch the threat in their midst, they had to watch for threats from the outside. Willow had put them all at double risk. In general, they had all put on a brave face, but the strain was telling.

            And then had come the phone call. All Willow knew was that it had been Giles; she didn't know what he had said. Whatever it was, though, had caused near panic. The coven had thrown together supplies and taken off, heading for the country. They had arrived last night, late, to this old farmhouse. The looks they had all cast her way made Willow extremely uncomfortable. 

            So, when they were all seemingly occupied, she had grabbed a sleeping bag and slipped out to the barn. She wanted to be alone, and she thought it likely that they wouldn't mind if she was far away from them. She had clambered up to the hay loft, crawled into the sleeping bag, and gone quickly to sleep. 

            Her dreams had been without incident, as far as she could remember. But now, in the growing half-light of dawn, the world of her emotions was swirling around her once again. Once again, she brushed back the approaching tears. She swallowed a couple of breaths, and tried to compose her thoughts. 

            Her lessons drifted into her mind, nearly unbidden. She had regularly taken comfort in those since she'd been here. Perhaps she could find comfort in them once again, here in the damp and cold hay loft. She slowed her breathing, willing herself to relax. Her eyes narrowed to half-slits and she felt the power within herself.

            She centered it – that is, she visualized the wild energies cascading throughout her body and pictured herself gathering them together into a single, multi-colored ball in the center of her chest. As she did, the sound of her own heartbeat grew stronger and louder in her ears. She could feel it thrum down the length of her limbs. It vibrated each hair on her body. Like feelers, they grew sensitive to the power.

            Then, she began expanding that visualized ball. She spread it out, feeling what it felt as it began to touch beyond her. The straw, the wood, the gentle breeze. The hard wood beneath her had once been a mighty oak tree. She could feel the echoes of its once-life, its branches waving in the wind. She could feel the years of its life in this barn, as well. Sense the cycle of planting and harvest, of gentle winters and bitter ones, and of the echoes of midnight romps in the hay. Echoes all, they left their sensations here for her to read.

            Slowly, she expanded her ball of energy still further, through the hay. A few feet away she touched another life. Its heart beating far more rapidly than hers, its small feet scratching through the hay, its hairless tale giving it balance as it moved through the world of semi darkness – 

            Willow sat bolt and began slapping at her sleeping bag. The bubble of energy popped as she scrambled furiously to get out of a prone position and stand. Once standing, still dressed in last night's clothes, she took many deep breaths to calm down. 

            "Okay," she said aloud, just to hear her own voice. "Note to self, country barns have _mice." She had faced demons and hellmeisters aplenty. She'd seen things that were repulsive as only the netherworld could be. And yet, her tone of voice made it clear that potentially sleeping with mice took the prize. She took several more breaths. "You'd think that after caring for the Amy-rat, I'd be used to them." She laughed a bit at herself. Took another breath, and shook her head. She was being silly. It had only been a little mouse, more afraid of her than she was of it._

            There was nothing here to be scared of.

* * *

            In the shadows of the barn, back beyond horse stalls, a pair of piercing, glowing eyes peered out. She was … humorous. He allowed himself a little laugh at her, so powerful and still so, so frail. She was, after all, merely human. He cast his eyes about again, taking in everything. Not just what was in the barn, but also what was beyond it. He could see through the old wooden walls as if they weren't even there. He could hear the conversations in the main house as if her were standing in their midst. All was well, so far. 

            Mr. Gray took a moment to adjust his suit, and then folded his arms and settled back to his watching.

* * *

            "Have we got anything?" Jonathan asked. He had just walked into the records room carrying several cups of tea and one triple latte. The team was gathered round, passing notes back and forth. Darla and Alicia were just awake, getting caught up on what had been discovered and where they were going to pick up from. Eric and Jerome were getting ready to take their turn at a few hours sleep. Jonathan checked his watch. "It's six. Jerome, I told Jen that you had something to do for me and that you couldn't be in before ten. Darla, she'll need you in by seven."

            "Thanks Jonny," Jerome replied through a yawn.

            "Aye," Darla nodded. "She kept about a third of the lads in last night, wants the rest in this morning. Everyone's on pager duty, though. We're just waiting for a hit on something."

            "Do we have any hits on anything?"

            Eric raised his hand. "Something kind of odd, yeah," he said, tapping his computer screen. "Remember that computer file restore we mentioned yesterday? Well, something else got restored with it. You won't believe what."

            "Go on, then," Jonathan was not in a mood for guessing games.

            "Sir Mark Blackwell's private encryption key." That was very unusual indeed. Encryption works with a pair of keys – the public key and the private key. What the public key encrypts, only the private key can decrypt, and vice versa. If something was encrypted with the private key, than anyone could read it with the public key, but the authorship would be without question. Likewise, anything encrypted with the public key could only be read with the private key.

            The private keys were issued on smart cards. Only the individual to whom it belonged possessed it. It was common practice, then, for individuals to secure their documents by encrypting them with the public key. Then, only they could decrypt them using their smart card. Further, the smart card would only release the key once a password had been entered. And, for those with sufficiently high intelligence rankings, the smart card reader required fingerprint identification in addition to the other two. The system used a triple form of authentication – something you know (the password), something you have (the smartcard), and something you are (your fingerprint) in order to release the private key.

            There was, however, one loophole. A copy of each private key was kept in a secure computer used to create the smart cards. After all, what would happen if one of the cards got damaged? You couldn't very well tell an MP, 'Oh well, your S-O-L, bub. You'll never be able to read those files again.' However, getting to that key backup was next to impossible. "The best part about this, though, is that it's the source file. It's not on a smart card, so we don't have any of the other smart card security to deal with. No fingerprint scan, no password."

            "I take it you checked on who accessed the backup system already." Jonathan made it a statement. He knew that his team was competent. 

            "Uniform on duty, sir. Sergeant Bradley Pickins. It seems that Sir Mark managed to burn a hole in his smart card with an errant fireplace ember the night before last. He came in first thing yesterday, turned in the old card for destruction and had the new one issued."

            "And Mr. Pickins?"

            "Clean as a whistle." Jonathan chewed his lip, trying to puzzle it out. "I have a theory of my own," Eric volunteered. Jonathan nodded. "It takes a while for the smart card to be built – say about ninety seconds. During that time, the private key is sitting on the machine that is building the card. Then it's destroyed. If someone knew that Sir Mark was going in to get a new card issued, and they had the clearance, they might've been able to lift a copy of the key during that time window."

            "That's a lot of 'if's, though." Jonathan waggled a finger. "In order for that to work, they would have to know that Sir Mark was going to need a new card. I don't see how that could be possible, unless they arranged for that ember to land on the smart card."

            "Well," said Jerome, thinking through in his own mind. "I think it could be done, actually. I mean, it depends on whether or not he saw the ember land there, or just found the burn mark and assumed it had been from an ember."

            "So, you're saying someone deliberately damage the card, and then let him make up his own explanation for how it had happened." Jonathan nodded. "That would work. Then you know he's coming in for a new card, and you have everything in place to lift the key in the ninety or so seconds that it's sitting there." 

            "Not impossible," Alicia said. "But how likely is it?"

            "Well, it could also be done by magic," Jerome retorted, smiling wickedly.

            "Oh for God's sake," Darla replied. Jonathan held up his hand to forestall any further discussion along that line.

            "Never mind that for now," he said, thinking through his options. "We'll not look a gift horse in the mouth. Alicia, see what you find using this key. We need to know what else Sir Mark has been involved in." Alicia nodded. This was going to be interesting, snooping around the foreign office files. "Darla, keep tabs on their search for Gretta Stevenson. If they get a solid lead on it, I want to know about it first." Darla nodded. "Eric, you get some sleep. In four hours, I want to know who made this little gift for us."

            "Got it," Eric replied, stifling a yawn.

            "Jerome, I think I really do have a task for you. I'm afraid you're not going to be getting any sleep."

            "If you can go without, so can I," Jerome replied. No one had wanted to mention to Jonathan that he hadn't gotten any sleep, either. It wouldn't have been politic. Jerome, however, seemed to manage to slip it in quite elegantly.

            "I've been tracking down rumors all night, and I think I found something. Sir Radcliffe's body was never found." They all stared at him, dumbfounded. All their eyes seemed to say the same thing, _You_ _don't think he's still alive, do you? "I think Sir Radcliffe knew that the Weber Institute was up to no good, and I think he put MacKenzie on that team to stop it. Then there's an attempt on his own life, and yes, I think it's distinctly possible that he's survived. And if he did …" he let the thought land, trying to see who would come to the inevitable conclusion._

            Unsurprisingly, it was Jerome who put the pieces together the fastest. "If he did, he's been running MacKenzie as his own private agent this whole time, trying to take down the Weber Institute."

            "That's what I'm thinking," Jonathan said.

            "You're leaping to a whole lot of conclusions," Alicia commented. "You don't have any kind of evidence to support this."

            "I know," Jonathan replied. "So it's time we test the theory. Jerome, I want you to go lean on Sir Mark Blackwell. Lean _hard_. I want a name, or an address, or something. I mean it." Jerome nodded. "He gets to the foreign office by eight o'clock. Catch him before then." He turned his attention to Alicia. "Get cracking on those files. Make sure Jerome has something to use for leverage by the time he catches up with Blackwell."

            They all nodded. Jonathan got up and ran a nervous hand through his hair. "In the meantime, I'm going out to Heathrow. Mr. Giles returned to this country five weeks ago. I want to see the footage of his arrival for myself."

  



	7. Chapter 7 Remembered Rituals

**  
** Chapter 7 

Remembered Rituals

_Thursday, __6:03 AM___

            "Morning, Ripper." Although the sun was just beginning to peak above the horizon, MacKenzie was already awake, dressed, and enjoying his second cup of coffee. He had, in fact, already done a perimeter check while it was still dark, armed with stealth and a compact rifle. There had been nothing to worry him. He had only gotten a couple hours of sleep, but it would take several days of that before he began to lose effectiveness. He could easily operate for seventy-two hours straight without rest, and had done so on several occasions. Eventually he would need to sleep – deeply, in a place where he felt reasonably safe – but that wouldn't be for some time.

            He sipped his coffee, taking in the disheveled Rupert Giles. It didn't look like the man had slept a wink. The circles under his eyes were dark, his eyes somewhat haunted. But he had slept, Mac knew. Fitfully, yes, but sleep was sleep. Mac pointed towards the coffee pot and Giles helped himself to a cup. "So," Mac ventured, a quirky smile on his face, "how's your first morning as a wanted terrorist?"

            Rupert, or Ripper as he was now being called, took the comment with humor. "I'm not sure I feel any different," he said, rubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin. "On the other hand, I'm sure there are many out there who might feel differently _about_ me." He sat and looked at MacKenzie, and for the first time it dawned on him that he was seeing the 'real' Mac, not the magic borne illusion. Instinctively, he reached up to grasp the key he was still wearing.

            "You're illusion's still in place, don't worry," said Mac over the rim of his coffee cup. "But I recommend you take it off before you try to shave."

            Ripper cocked his head to one side, considering the illusion from that angle. "I hadn't really thought of that," he replied. "But you're quite right, that could prove quite difficult. It's a good thing I haven't got a haircut scheduled anytime soon." He shrugged once again, and drank his coffee. 

            Ten minutes later, they were both draining their cups and feeling more refreshed. "Go get cleaned up," Mac said, picking up the two cups and carrying them to the sink. "He'll see you as soon as you're ready."

            "I'm ready now," Giles offered, but Mac shook his head. It wouldn't do for Ripper to meet Sir Radcliffe looking like a rumpled alley cat. Besides, there was time enough for civility. Ripper desperately wanted to forge ahead as quickly as possible, and, by extension, for it all to be over as quickly as possible. But as often was the case, they were in the 'wait' phase of 'hurry up and wait'. They couldn't leave again until this evening, so there was no need to rush through things this morning. Besides, this would be a meeting of some significance; best that it all be done correctly.

            "There's time enough for a bit of civility," Mac replied. "Besides, he's not ready to meet you quite yet. Go get cleaned up, you'll feel better." It was a dismissal, which Ripper knew, and he took it that way. Without a word, he turned and left.

            Mac finished with the cups and then turned off the coffee pot. They could always reheat it later. Then he went out and checked on the jeep, making sure that everything was in place should they need a quick getaway. He didn't think they would, but luck favored those who were prepared. When he returned to the house, Ripper was descending the stairs, clean and dressed, although still a bit dripping. He had chosen to leave off the illusion, which was good. It would've been required of him anyway, and having him do it without being asked demonstrated a certain level of awareness that Mac felt was important. Mac motioned for him to follow, and then led the way to the study at the back of the house. 

            Reaching the doors he knocked, just as he had the night before, pausing only for a moment and then turning the handle. The door opened easily, and he led the way in. The room was a bit different than the previous night. The chairs and table had been moved to stand against the walls, leaving a large open area in the center of the room. In that space, over the old mahogany floors, had been spread out a carpet of alternating black and white diamonds. In the center of that had been placed a small table, upon which stood a large, old Bible and several other items. The fire in the hearth had gone out, but the Sun's rays were beginning to penetrate the old, glazed windows to provide illumination.

            Ripper only had a few moments to take it all in, because he was immediately approached by a white-haired old man in an immaculate black suit. The suit itself was cut in an antique fashion, but it had every appearance of being brand new. The man reached his hand out to him and took his, which Ripper gave to him automatically. The grip was firm, the shake vigorous. The voice, which he had expected to be frail but was quite the opposite, was tinged with barely suppressed glee.

            "Mr. Giles, Mr. Giles, what a pleasure to finally meet you." He pumped his hand once more but didn't let go. "Mr. MacKenzie has told me so much about you, but it is a rare pleasure to meet you at last in person. A rare pleasure indeed. Positively capital." The sparkle in the old man's eyes seemed to penetrate Ripper, the smile on the man's face was infectious. The old man continued to smile as he placed his left hand over their clasped right hands. And then, quite without warning, the grip of the handshake changed.

            The smile on the old man's face remained exactly as it had been, his eyes looking somewhat expectantly into Ripper's. But under the cover of his left hand, his right one changed, the position and the pressure adjust just … so. It was a signal, one to which Ripper knew the appropriate reply. He adjusted his own part of the grip accordingly, and the old man's smile brightened just a little bit more. The sign and countersign had been given.

            "Then you are a mason, I presume," the old man said simply. The innocuous statement was much more than it appeared, though; Ripper responded with the ritual reply. The old man nodded, and released his hand. He turned to MacKenzie. "Well done. This will be much simpler, much simpler indeed."

            "I'm not sure I understand," Ripper stated. "What does the fact that I'm a Freemason have to do with any of this?" He had joined the lodge of Freemasons in his late twenties. It had been the same lodge his father had been a member of, and after having been quite a hell-raiser (both literally and figuratively), it symbolized his reformation. He had learned his parts of the ritual, and had been active for the first few years. But the work of the Watchers had moved him around, and he had quite unintentionally grown away from the organization. Once he had moved to Sunnydale, his disassociation had been complete.

            The old man didn't stop smiling, but his tone grew slightly more serious. "There is much you need to know," he said, then paused to think through what he needed to stay. "Much of what I have to tell you is … sensitive. So much so that it must be communicated in absolute secrecy, and held as such. One such way to do this is within a Freemason's lodge."

            Ripper understood, now. The word 'lodge' was used to mean several things. A lodge of Freemasons was, in the strictest sense, the group of people who comprised it. It was the membership. The word was also used to designate the _place where that membership met. But the phrase _within a lodge_ was more specific still. It meant _during_ a ritual meeting of Freemasons._

            A meeting of Freemasons was opened and closed with ritual, which for most masons was simply the process that was used to call the group to order. But for those like Ripper who were familiar with nature and structure of magic, it was far more than that. It was a process of erecting wards to guard against outside incursion, and to bind those inside at an esoteric level to the oaths they had sworn there – to not betray the secrets of the lodge. For most Masonic meetings, the ritual was empty of esoteric power, because the masons who practiced it were simply not magicians. 

            Ripper remembered, though, the powerful magic that guarded this house already. This ritual opening would be laced with magic, because the old man in front of him was so powerful, or at least had access to something that gave him power. The house was already warded against intrusion, so there was little need for that. However, the opening would bind all of them to their oaths – to not betray the secrets that would be revealed in the meeting. That binding by such strong magic, especially given the depth of those oaths, would be formidable.

            Ripper nodded. "How did you know that I was a Freemason?"

            The old man's eyes twinkled. "Ah, I have my ways, yes. But knowing that you had once been an active member of a lodge was sufficient only to make plans. I needed to be sure that you remembered the ritual, and the oath, before I could act on them. You have given me that confirmation, and therefore we can proceed." He turned and walked over to a space on the opposite side of the room, on the very edge of the diamond pattern carpet. The windows on that side were awash with the sunrise, and Ripper realized that it was the east end of the room. The significance was not lost on him.

            "There are three of us," the old man said. "That is enough to open. Mr. MacKenzie, if you will take your station in the West, please. Mr. Giles, please take the South." And with that, the ritual opening was begun.

* * *

Jerome Barrington sipped a cup of tea from a paper cup. The early dawn was chilly, and he was low on sleep. But the shiver he got was from neither of those issues; he shivered in excitement. He was on the hunt, and in only a few moments his prey would walk into his unsuspecting trap. On mornings like this, Jerome loved his job.

He was standing behind a wall just outside Sir Mark Blackwell's townhouse. Sir Blackwell had been _disinclined_ to meet with MI-5 this morning when Jerome had called twenty minutes before. He knew that meant that Sir Mark was also going to instruct his secretary that he would be _unavailable for the rest of the day, at least as far as MI-5 was concerned. And by lunch time the PM would have called the Crombey demanding to know why they wanted to talk so badly to the foreign secretary, and the whole thing would be scrapped._

Jerome was _disinclined to let that happen. So he waited outside the Sir Mark's home, hidden from all eyes inside the house. He knew what was going to happen next. The black sedan pulled up to the curve as it did every morning at this time. Sir Mark would see it, put on his coat, garb his case, and walk out the door. Then Jerome would have him._

            The driver got out of the car and approached him, clearly on guard. He was more than a driver, he was security as well. Jerome would've been quite disappointed if his presence had not aroused the driver's suspicions. Jerome slowly took his ID out and showed to the man. "Barrington, MI-5. The foreign secretary and I are going to take a little walk. You can follow along in the car, but you can't listen in. Got it?"

            A close inspection of the credentials was all that was required. The driver turned and got back into the car just as Sir Mark Blackwell walked out the gate. He looked from the driver to Jerome, his face contorted with confusion and distrust. Jerome held up the ID, still in his hand. "Sir Mark," he stated with a nod.

            "I told you that I'm disinclined to speak with you today, and waiting outside my house isn't going to make me any more inclined to help you. The PM is going to hear about this!" His heavy jowls were tinged red with his anger, but Jerome smiled coolly at him.

            "Collum MacKenzie committed an act of terrorism yesterday, Sir Mark. Now I'd like to know why you were arranging for the release of a U.S. prisoner into his custody just four days ago." Jerome smiled predatorily. The information from the Foreign Secretary's encrypted files had given him plenty of leverage.

            Sir Mark's face underwent several sudden transformations: shock, livid anger, and then cold, calculating solidity. "What do you want?" he hissed.

            "Let's take a walk," Jerome replied. Sir Mark Blackwell complied.

* * *

            In the center of the room, the large Bible now stood open, the square and compasses set on the open page. This was the external symbol that the lodge was open and in session. At an esoteric level, though, it was much more. They formed an anchor point in the center of the room, half-way between the east and west stations, and directly aligned with the south station. These three stations were the border points which defined the scope and limits of the wards that had been raised during the opening ritual. The power of those wards derived from the power of the symbols set at anchor – the Bible, square and compasses. Within the sacred confines of this warded area, the men were both protected from outside intrusion and bound to their oaths as Freemasons.

            The old man cleared his throat, and sighed, letting the power they had just raised settle about his shoulders like a mantle. He sat in the East, the position of the Worshipful Master of the Lodge. Opposite him, in the West, sat MacKenzie, taking on the role of the Senior Warden. In the South sat Ripper, the Junior Warden.

            Normally, a lodge could only be opened at its designated location unless special permission had been given by the overseeing body, in this case the Grand Lodge of England. It was important that the lodge be anchored as much as possible to a fixed place and a fixed schedule. Indeed, lodges were tied not only to physical locations, but were chartered to have a scope and authority over a particular region. Ripper had become a member of Dumbarton Lodge number 419, which was the lodge for that town. A lodge did not travel, even when its membership did. There were known exceptions, of course – the Grand Lodge of Texas had given a special charter to Buzz Aldrin, who had carried it with him on the Apollo space missions and through it formed Tranquility Lodge number 2000, whose location and scope covered the moon. The membership of Tranquility lodge were unable to meet at its proper location (lacking regular space travel), and so had been granted permission to meet at more convenient, terrestrial locations.

            With that history firmly in mind, Ripper was surprised to hear the lodge opened as _Logus__ en Persona au Dispentatia Perpatua – a lodge __in the person of the Worshipful Master operating with perpetual dispensation. He'd never heard of such a thing, and looked worriedly towards the old man. If this were not a regular, legal lodge, he could be disbarred from his other lodge for so associating with it._

            Sir Radcliffe had noticed Ripper's hesitation during the opening ritual, and knew that he had to get a number of things clarified right off the bat before he could launch into the important parts of his story. "My name," he began, thinking it best to get that out of the way up front, "is Sir Radcliffe Holm. I was, until recently, the Director of Special Projects for her Majesty's military. It was I who made sure that Captain MacKenzie was put on Sheffield's team when they were sent to Sunnydale, knowing that they had to be stopped, and that Mac would be just the person to do it.

            "As you can no doubt surmise, I no longer hold that position, but that is merely a misunderstanding. I have been presumed dead for nearly two years now, and it has served my purposes for that belief to linger, especially in the mind of our common enemy.

            "As for this Lodge - _en Persona au Dispentatia Perpatua _– I can assure you that it operates under a legal charter from the Grand Lodge of England. It is, to the very extent of my knowledge, the only one of its kind. Of course, it was created in deepest secrecy at a time of great urgency, and there is no doubt that others could have been created in similar circumstances."

            "What circumstances are those?" Ripper asked, curious now, although not completely convinced.

            "This one was created in World War II, the charter given to me that I may open and invoke lodge under my own authority, wherever need be, and under whatever circumstances. The reason was simplicity itself. Meetings needed to be held, and those meetings needed to be bound in secrecy and security. You have no doubt sensed the power of the bindings in place in this lodge. Those come not from me, but from certain artifacts molded to this purpose. I was able to carry those artifacts with me, often into occupied or enemy territory, and with them open a protected lodge. Within the strictures of this power, those attending the lodge were bound to secrecy. Within them, plans were made to stop the evil spreading across the land – plans which could not be revealed to anyone else, even if the person wanted to. The magic prevented that." Sir Radcliffe's eyes took on a slightly dreamy expression, remembering times past. "Indeed," he whispered, almost to himself, "even when we were infiltrated by Nazi spies, they could not reveal our plans to anyone, or betray us in any way. It was dangerous work, yes, but it saved many lives."

            The explanation made sense. Ripper could see how that kind of power used in this way could be a great accomplishment, how it could assure the secrecy of those whose very lives depended on it. That kind of power was not easy to come by, though. "Where did you come by those artifacts?"

            "They were made for us," Sir Radcliffe replied, and then smiled like a child with a secret, "by the Watcher's Council." This took Ripper back, and the surprise showed on his face. Sir Radcliffe smiled in delight. It was not often anymore that he was able to surprise someone, especially with his self-imposed exile. It was a special treat for him to be able to do so. "At the time, the Watcher's Council was as threatened as we were by the Nazis. More so, since Hitler was obsessed with finding magical artifacts to aid his conquest of the world. We could trust them, then."

            "Who is 'we'" The use of the plural had been bothering Ripper.

            "The government, in general. Special Projects, in particular. But …" He drew the word out, letting it hang in the air for moment as his mind flashed back again to those days. "At a more personal level, I mean the Queen and I. We could trust the Council then. They aided us, and we protected them."

            Ripper filled in the rest of the unspoken thought. "That was before Arinoth grew to power with the Council, and corrupted it, though."

            "Quite right." Sir Radcliffe's eyes were pulled back to the present, and the sparkle of anticipation had returned. "In truth, it's my own fault. Arinoth found out about the watchers through me. If I had been more on guard, more aware of what he really was, I would never have told him. But we had been friends a long time. It's hard to imagine that after all we had seen and been through that I didn't really know him at all."

            "How did you meet him?" Ripper asked. It was the next logical question.

            "We were both teachers at Oxford," Sir Radcliffe replied. "I taught mathematics, he taught natural philosophy. It lacked the scientific focus the topic has now, but the students liked it. It was … how do you say it? … an 'easy A'." He hummed to himself for a moment, drawn back to those early days. "It was much different then than today, of course. Much different."

            Ripper placed the man at being near eighty or so, but he couldn't have been older than twenty-five to have been a professor before the Great War. That seemed very unlikely, even for a prodigy. That would mean it would've had to have been after, sometime in the late 40s or early 50s. "This was after World War II, I take it."

            The old man smiled. "No, no. It was the summer of sixteen eighty-five."

  



	8. Chapter 8 Just a Name or Two

**  
** Chapter 8 

Just a Name or Two

_Thursday, __9:49 AM___

            "I got a name," said Jerome, triumph spread across his face. He had just returned to the records room from his 'interview' with Sir Mark Blackwell. It had taken no small effort to convince Sir Blackwell to cave in with information. At first, Jerome had assumed that Sir Blackwell was in league with the Weber Institute. However, the evidence of his efforts to assist Collum MacKenzie had changed his perspective … and his tactics.

            He had tried to squeeze the foreign secretary with MacKenzie's status as a terrorist. Sir Blackwell, though, had remained stalwartly loyal – at least apparently so. It was this appearance of loyalty to MacKenzie which struck Jerome as both odd and significant. It looked genuine, but Jerome was certain that it wasn't. It had forced a change in plans, in approach. He was certain the Sir Mark was playing his own game, and so he had tried to paint it in that light – cooperating was the only way that he could continue having input into the situation. If he didn't give up something, he'd be frozen out and left in political purgatory. 

            In the end, the argument had worked, albeit grudgingly. The information he had given Jerome, however, was invaluable.

            "So do I," replied Jonathan. "Let's hear yours first." The team leader was haggard, and it wasn't from lack of sleep. He had clearly been puzzling over something that he had found, and the fact that the pieces of the puzzle were not coming together was clearly getting on his nerves.

            "Anthony Straznikof." Jerome paused and licked his lips as Alicia immediately began typing in the man's name in the computer. "He's one of Mr. Turcey's underlings at the Weber Institute. He's been cooperating with the government for years – ever since Turcey first started approaching the military procurement people. He contacted Blackwell right about the time that Turcey was negotiating with our dearly departed Brigadier General. It seems that the man got a sudden attack of conscience and has been trying to stop this group from achieving its goals – with government support, of course."

            "You mean immunity," replied Alicia absently. She scrolled down on her computer screen, speed reading the results that had come back on Mr. Straznikof. She pursed her lips as she read, becoming increasingly distracted from the conversation by what was written there before her.

            "It seems that you were right, Jonny boy," Jerome continued. "Sir Blackwell alerted Sir Radcliffe as soon as he figured out what the Weber Institute was really offering. Sir Radcliffe put MacKenzie on the team, whom he knew wouldn't stand for it. MacKenzie put a stop to it, and Sir Blackwell covered it up. In exchange, he's now second only to the PM in the hallowed halls of government. And the whole thing is quite tidily invisible."

            "They didn't want the press getting hold of it, eh?" queried Alicia. She was the most cynical of the team despite her relative youth.

            "Yeah, but not for the reason's you think. Sir Radcliffe and Sir Blackwell needed to make sure that Sheffield and his team got taken out of play. They covered it up to make sure that there would be no extradition." Jerome nodded for emphasis. "If Sheffield got sent back to British soil, there's a fair bet that he'd get sprung from whatever cell we had him in – or even worse, whitewashed and put on active duty. Better to bury him in a deep, dark American hole and let the Weber institute try to dig him out."

            Jonathan's face was the very definition of concentration. He was listening with a small chunk of his brain, automatically flagging the important parts for review, assessing the impacts. "So, they took away one of the Weber Institute's key weapons. Very smart." He quickly did a mental rewind of the conversation. "So, what was it Turcey and Straznikof were trying to peddle to the military?" 

            "A super weapon. Something called 'the Slayer.'"

            "What is that, some kind antipersonnel bomb?" Alicia's face screwed up at the name. "Sounds pretty awful to me. What kind of people think up these things, anyway. You have to wonder about their mums and dads."

            "You said 'super-weapon'," Jonathan said, ignoring Alicia's comments. "Explain."

            "You're not going to believe it," Jerome replied. "It's a girl."

            "What's a girl?" Alicia asked, her brows twitching. 

            Jerome rubbed his hands together. "The Slayer. It's a girl, a magically created super-soldier. Fast, strong, and ruthless."

            "That makes sense," Jonathan said, nodding.

            "You've all gone completely daft!" Alicia threw her hands up in frustration.

            "Remember, it's not what we think, it's what they think. And they believe it – the Weber Institute, the Brigadier, Sir Blackwell. All of them. And they were willing to go to some pretty extraordinary lengths about it." Jerome's look turned serious. "According to Sir Blackwell, the U.S. Military has got evidence. There _is such a girl, and you'll never guess where she lives."_

            Jonathan replied immediately. "Sunnydale."

            "Got it in one, mate." Jerome smiled. "And the girl's mentor and protector there?"

            "Rupert Giles." Jonathan rubbed his hands together and thought for a few moments. "So, Mr. Giles goes to Sunnydale to mentor and protect this young girl who's some sort of super hero. Magically created by the Weber institute – which believes all of this stuff –  or at least in league with them. Others in the organization decide to sell her out to the RAF. Mr. Giles doesn't like the idea, and neither does a U.S. Congressman, who has somehow put two and two together. So the buyer – in this case our military – send in a team to clean it up. Sir Radcliffe doesn't like the idea, either, so he sends along the good Captain. MacKenzie stops them from getting her, make sure the entire team gets put on ice in an American prison, and then he and Sir Radcliffe move into their own covert war to dismantle the rest of the organization."

            "Not all of it," Jerome interrupted. "According to Sir Blackwell, it's only one part that they're after – the part that's been 'corrupted', as he puts it. Turcey is only the public face, there's someone else behind it."

            "Okay," replied Jonathan, nodding. He absorbed the correction and moderately adjusted his conclusions. "MacKenzie infiltrates the Weber Institute – or at least their hired mercenaries – just about the time that Mr. Giles comes back to England. They put a tap on him, and MacKenzie decides he needs to blow his cover and get Mr. Giles out. He'd only do that if they were close to getting something from him."

            "But what?" Alicia asked.

            "The girl," Jonathan replied. He pulled surveillance photos out of his briefcase. "These were taken at Heathrow two months ago. That's Mr. Giles arriving from the United States." The pictures showed him in the company of a young woman. They were clearly together. One photo was a close-up of her face. "That's Willow Rosenberg, resident of Sunnydale, California. I'm willing to bet that she's what they were after."

            "But she wasn't with him?" Jerome said. "Ah – he's had her hidden away somewhere, and they were tapping his place trying to figure out where."

            "Right, but we know that now, don't we?" Jonathan nodded.

            "Gretta Stevenson," Alicia replied. "That's why he called, he told her to take that girl and run."

            "Right," said Jonathan. "Run and hide. And wherever they went is where Giles and MacKenzie will go. We find either group and we've effectively found both."

            "Assuming that our friends upstairs don't find them first." The gravity of the situation was clear. They were in a race with their own organization.

            "So how're we going to find them?" Alicia asked.

            "We're not," Jonathan replied. "We'll let Jen's team do it, but we need to make sure that once they're found, we know about it and they don't. Jerome?"

            "Got it, Jonny," he replied. He rose with a salute and left. He knew his job.

            "What about us?" Alicia asked.

            "We find Mr. Straznikof," Jonathan said. "Whatever it is he knows is going to be valuable to us, and I don't think Sir Blackwell is simply going to hand him over. He's appearing to cooperate, but I'll bet he'll contact Straznikof and tell him to lay low. We need to get to him first." Alicia printed a page and handed it to Jonathan. There was a complete profile of Straznikof, from where he lived to what his favorite food was. It also contained instructions on how to contact him securely. "Where'd you find this?" he asked.

            "The foreign office files," she replied. 

            "Right, then," Jonathan said, blowing out a breath. The contact method was as simple as it was secure. The process of stegenography was the encoding of one digital object within another digital object. In this case, and electronic message was dispersed throughout a digital image. Predefined bit locations within the digital image were changed to match the bits of the message. These changes introduced tiny error into the digital image, but the errors were in single pixels scattered throughout the picture. A typical computer image contains nearly three-quarters of a million such dots; a photograph from a decent digital camera has several times as many. By contrast, a fifty word message would on average change only about two-hundred of them – less than three-hundredths of one percent. Since they were single bit changes throughout, they typically represented a change of only a fractional shade of color of each dot – not only completely undetectable to the human eye, but the huge range of natural color variation in any photograph, completely undetectable by computers as well. Only if someone knew exactly where and how to look could they find the hidden message.

            In this case, the encoded message was then pushed to a public internet newsgroup, accessible anonymously from anywhere in the world. The nature of internet newsgroups meant that the message was pushed out to thousands of servers worldwide, and the original publisher of that message had no control, nor even any idea, where it had gone. It was the opposite paradigm of web sites. In a web site, all the readers go to the publisher's server; with newsgroups, the publisher sends to every user's server in the world. The result was that there was no way to know or track who had read the message. 

            In this scenario, Straznikof undoubtedly had a machine somewhere automatically scanning the images in the particular newsgroup. It would take each one as it arrived and attempt to decode a message out of it. If it found a valid message in that image, it would automatically contact him. Without this document, the system was both untraceable and undetectable.

            Jonathan pulled out his mobile and dialed Eric. "Where are you?" he queried.

            "Two blocks away, just getting a spot of tea on the way in." Eric still sounded tired, but Jonathan didn't care.

            "Stay where you are, Alicia is coming to meet you. She has instructions on how to search for a coded message. I need a program to do it automatically and I needed it about an hour ago. I want you to run it from someplace public." The unique thing about this system, Jonathan noted, was that it used a pornographic newsgroup. Hundreds of images were posted to such groups every day, unlike most of the other groups which were primarily text exchanges. Due to sexual harassment issues, access to pornographic internet sites and groups was banned in government offices, which meant that people like MI-5 couldn't just stumble onto it. Jonathan knew that any attempting to get the authorization to access those groups would tip off the other team. He needed this done as secretly as possible, and he preferred not to use Crombey as a resource if he didn't have to. "The message has likely been posted within the last hour. I need to know what it says."

            "You got it," Eric replied eagerly.

* * *

            Five minutes later, Alicia handed him the paper. He read it through twice, and whistled. "This is brilliant," he said to no one in particular.

            "But you can crack it?" she asked. 

            "Sure. With this information it won't take anything at all. Without it, no one could." Eric smiled broadly. "I'll have it in no time." His self-confidence was grating.

            "Well, get on with it then," Alicia snapped. For all her beauty, the classic willowy blonde had the personality of a spinster aunt. Eric made a small face and then turned away, trotting off without comment. She turned the opposite way and headed back to Thames House to continue her research.

* * *

            Jonathan wandered through the busy room, watching his friends and associates diligently working at purposes counter to his own. He'd always liked the image of the place as a beehive, but for the first time he didn't see himself as one of the bees. This time, he was there to gather the honey of their hard work before they could use it. He just hoped he didn't manage to get stung in the process.

            He walked up to Crombey's office. Jenny Thatcher and Mr. Turcey were conversing animatedly with Crombey. It was clear that Mr. Turcey was unhappy with the lack of progress in the investigation. Jenny was looking worried – this was her big chance, and it was beginning to look like she was failing. Crombey sat still, listening implacably to Mr. Turcey's ranting. He wasn't one to get bullied by anyone – especially not someone he neither liked nor trusted in the first place. 

            Crombey held up his hand for silence, forcing Turcey to bite off his latest tirade. He then motioned for Jonathan to enter. Jonathan poked his head in the door. "There's been some developments in the Heathrow project. Do you have moment?"

            Crombey looked from Turcey to Jen and then back to Turcey. "I take it you have much more to say, Mr. Turcey, but I'm afraid I've got a nation to protect. You'll just have to let me do that for a little while, and then I will be happy to return my undivided attention to your ramblings." The dismissal was harsh – amazingly so. Jonathan saw Jenny wince at the statement. This was all going very badly for her, and he truly felt sorry. But there were more important things at stake here than her feelings.

            Jenny got up to leave, but Turcey began again. "I am far from finished," he snapped. He started to say more, but then thought better of it. Instead he stood up and stomped off, colliding deliberately with Jonathan on way out the door. The hit was slight, just one shoulder bumping another, but the contempt in it was clear. For a brief flash, Jonathan considered immobilizing the arrogant pig, but dismissed it instantly. He had other work to do. Instead, he went into the office and closed the door.

            "What have you got?" Crombey asked.

* * *

            "What have you got?" Jerome asked.

            Analyst (2nd Class) Miles Winthrop looked up at the agent leaning over his shoulder. He liked working with Jonathan's team, but being in the analyst pool he simply took what assignments were given to him. His last assignment had been to monitor the phone communications of anyone on the suspect's phone list, which was easily accomplished. There'd been very little activity to hold his attention.

            But then he'd gotten an idea. It wasn't much more than a seed at first, not enough to bring to Jenny or one of the other agents. He really wasn't sure what he was looking for. He just had an idea of where to look. And so he'd gone looking, poking around in different places, following delicate strands of connections. It was tedious, typically disappointing work. If asked to explain what he was doing, he had no hope of being able to articulate it.

            But then he'd found it. 

            He'd let out a whoop of triumph, which Jerome had caught. Jenny and Mr. Turcey were in Crombey's office arguing, but as he looked he saw Jonathan approaching. It was just a small cry of joy and a satisfied expression, but Jerome suspected that it really meant a major breakthrough. And in a few seconds Jenny was going to walk out of Crombey's office and Miles would walk up and spill the whole thing to her, which meant that Jerome had to intercept it.

            He had jogged over to the workstation and bent over to talk to the analyst, making sure his position would obscure the analyst's face as Jenny and Turcey walked by. He needed to find out if this was a real lead, and if it was he had to get it to Jonathan without the others knowing. He turned his complete attention on the analyst.

            "Well, I really wasn't sure of what I was looking for, only I remembered my grand-parents beach house. So, I started poking around property ownership." He looked over at Jerome to make sure the agent was following his explanation. So far, it meant nothing, but Jerome nodded and encouraged him to continue. "So, I pulled a list of everyone who had ever had Gretta Stevenson's address listed as a place of residence in the last twenty years. There were twelve. Three at Gretta's previous address, and nine at the current one. Then I looked at any property they might own, or have access to by way of relations."

            "How'd you manage that?" Jerome asked, clearly curious.

            "I used a house-holding algorithm. It looks through the property ownership records and matches people who shared a last name and an address anywhere in the postal records. It takes quite a bit of crunching, but I had a pretty small target list to being with, so it wasn't so bad." The explanation was given in an offhand manner, like someone explaining quantum mechanics as an everyday phenomena that any school child should understand. Jerome didn't, not really, but he wanted to get to the good part.

            Jenny and Mr. Turcey walked past them, each so caught up in their own emotions that they failed to really take notice of the conversation. Jenny was tense, bordering on desperate. Turcey was livid. _Good_, thought Jerome, _that__ should keep them occupied for a little bit. "Go on," he said aloud. _

            "Okay, so here's number five on the list. Veronica Burm, deceased at age eighty-seven. She had two properties that were left to various people. One of which is a farmhouse outside Worcester." He pointed at a property records on the computer screen, clearly showing the chain. "Now, here's where it gets interesting. Here's the power meter readings from that property over the last five days."

            The graph he pulled up was self-explanatory. The power consumption levels for the property were at nearly nothing for the first three-and-a-half days. Then, suddenly, they had spiked up to a normal usage pattern.

            "That spike occurred three hours and twelve minutes after the suspect's call to Gretta Stevenson." He turned and smiled at Jerome, who nodded. "If they had gone somewhere already occupied, we might not have been able to tell. But the change here is so dramatic that it's clear that someone took up residence. Given the timing and everything else, I think it's a pretty good lead."

            Jerome rubbed his face. "It's an excellent lead," he said. "Actually, there's one thing we'll need to double check on. These readings," he indicated the flat ones, "could be due to errors in the metering system. If that's the case, we should a record of the utility incident in the archives room."

            Jerome stood up and waved to Darla, who hurried over. "Miles here has something he needs to check out in the archives. Why don't you show him down there and help him find it." He squeezed her shoulder a couple times, a coded warning.

            "Right," she said, and gestured for young Miles to lead the way to the lift. He walked by, and Darla risked a quick, whispered clarification. "Keep him there?" she asked as she turned to follow him. Jerome nodded.

            He watched them get to the lift, then turned back to the workstation. He clicked on the 'print' command to get the location, snagged the paper and folded it into his pocket. Then he hit the power button on the workstation, erasing the work. Checking to see if anyone noticed, he turned and walked towards Crombey's office. 

            The advantage to being in a bee-hive was that everyone was too busy to really notice what the others were doing. That worked to his advantage. He felt confident that it would be some time before Miles's absence was commented upon.

            Jerome surreptitiously signaled to Jonathan, who promptly left Crombey's office. They walked to the lift and got on together. "We've found them," Jerome said. 

  



	9. Chapter 9 A Tale of Two Watchers

**  
** Chapter 9 

A Tale of Two Watchers

_Thursday, __11:47 AM___

            Ripper swallowed his surprise. "What are you?" he stammered out.

            Sir Radcliffe seemed particularly pleased. The question was insightful, true. It also was testament to Ripper's training as a watcher. But it was also asked without fear, without revulsion. Ripper judged men – to use the term loosely – by their actions, not their appearance or dimension of origin. "If you mean, am I a demon, then I can assure you I am not." Sir Radcliffe composed himself slightly, seeking a way to articulate a more complete answer. "To all appearances, and that includes medical scans, by the way, I am completely human. I was born to two human parents, both of whom died in their forties. Of course, that was a _very long time ago, and healthcare wasn't what it is today."_

            His father had died from a simple infection that came from a cut. He had been a peasant farmer. Living conditions were hard, almost brutal. The landowner was not particularly kind to them, taking most of what they grew as payment for their lease on the land. Of course, perpetual indentured servitude could hardly be called a lease, but never-the-less that's what the wicked Baron Kilpunt had insisted that it was. In addition to malnutrition and disease, unsanitary living conditions, vermin, and any number of farming accidents, there was the ever present risk of germs in any wound. A simple cut from an old and nearly useless knife had caused Sir Radcliffe's father to die in agony.

            Without his father to work the farm, Baron Kilpunt had put them off their land. His mother had attempted to survive with her children, but the choices for that were severely limited. Consumption had taken her the second winter following her husband's death, and Sir Radcliffe had been left with nothing but his own wits to survive.

            He had made his way to Londontown, as it was known then. From there he had gained employment on the boats that prowled the Thames. Again, they had call it 'employment', but in reality he was little more than a slave, sold from one boat captain to another over the years, until he had finally been freed.

            Sir Radcliffe shook himself from the memory. It was time to focus on the present. It was getting harder, he realized. It seemed that age was finally calling to him after all this time. He hoped he would finish this last battle before it finally claimed him.

            "However," he continued, smiling at his own frailty, "there is no doubt that I am … special. I won't say that I cannot die, but there are very few ways to kill me." What those ways were only a handful of people knew; he wasn't about to share them to anyone who didn't absolutely need to know. "There are others like me, less now than there were. Many of them seek to eliminate the others, to be some kind of sole survivor. I don't hold to that particular approach to life, but they are sometimes difficult to avoid. Arinoth was not like them, either. We were friends … at least at first.

            "We knew each other instantly, both of us special. We can sense one another, you see. We know when there is another of our kind around us. It put me on guard, of course, there was no telling whether or not he would choose to seek my destruction. But we were both quick to discover that neither of us desired bloodshed. We shared this bond, you see – that is how we became friends. He was far older than I was, but we still each remembered far too many lifetimes to have no one to share them with. Late at night we would talk of the old days, of the things we had seen, of all that had happened in our lifetimes."

            "If I may ask," Ripper said, hoping not to interrupt, "when were you born?"

            "Twelve twenty, by the current calendar." It was smack in the middle of the Middle Ages. "We talked much of the Renaissance in Italy, and the Reformation, and the great promise of Science. We talked of the world as it was before, and our hopes for the future. I think he was more at peace then, his obsessions had subsided. I realize now that they were merely in remission, but the cancer of his soul never really left him."

            Sir Radcliffe sighed, deeply. There had been so much promise, then; so much potential. The ages seemed to weigh down as he told the story. It was as if, in the telling, he was letting go of some great responsibility that had preserved him, and now all that he had held at bay through eight centuries was going to settle on him.

            "I heard tell of a vision gained by a … a demon, an acquaintance of a friend of mine. He said that Arinoth _had died, many times." Ripper was trying to correlate the information he had heard from his friends in L.A. with the tale that Sir Radcliffe was telling him now._

            MacKenzie cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since the opening ritual. "Lorne, the one with the karaoke bar. I told you about that."

            "Oh, yes!" exclaimed the old man, his eyes coming alight once more with renewed vigor. "A demon with the voice of an angel, yes. And very … how do you say it? 'hip?' – yes, that's it, very hip, too."

            Ripper smiled. "That would be him."

            "Well," Sir Radcliffe said, his hand waiving in the air trying to think of how to say it. "When I say we can't be killed, that wasn't precisely what I meant. What I meant is that there are only a couple of ways to kill us so that we _stay_ dead. We can die as easily as any other man, it's just that afterwards we … get over it."

            "Ah," said Ripper, thinking it through. "That's fascinating, actually."

            "Indeed," replied Sir Radcliffe. "But let me complete my story, for now we are getting to the important part. I learned of the Watchers in fourteen seventy. I met mine, quite by accident."

            "Your what?" Ripper asked, slightly confused.

            "My Watcher." Sir Radcliffe smiled. "You see, Ripper, the Watchers watch much more than you know. There are many sects, many groups, hidden from one another. There are only a handful that know of them all. There is one whole group that watches _us, those who have trouble … staying dead. And I met mine. Nice lad, actually. We became friends, although it was forbidden to him. That group, you see, does not interfere. They chronicle, and keep secrets, but they do not interfere. Well, most don't."_

            "How many groups of watchers are there?" Ripper asked, perplexed.

            "Enough. Yes, more than enough." The old man's cryptic reply was lightened by his smile. He wasn't going to tell.

            "But what would the others watch?" Ripper asked again, taking the question from a different track.

            "The X-Files," Mac replied, not smiling. The answer led to a flash of awareness. Aliens, government conspiracies, mad scientists, psychics – as many tales as one could think of, for each one some branch of the watchers would be tracking it.

            "I learned of the Watchers from him, and from there I learned all I could. Carefully, secretly. It was dumb luck, actually, that I came upon another of the groups. Dumb and tragic, for it cost me my friend and Watcher. But I gained another friend that day – I became friends with a Slayer."

            Ripper's eyebrows shot up at that. "Really, who?" He knew all of the Slayer histories, and none of them mentioned men who could not die – at least not humans.

            "Olivia Francesca Marie de C'Oultorino. You know of her, no doubt." There could be no doubt, for she was the most flamboyant and unconventional of the Slayer's in history, moreso than even Buffy. By the time she was called and received the powers of the Slayer, she had already made other plans, and was pursuing quite a different line of work.

            "Indeed," Ripper responded. "The Italian Courtesan."

            "Yes!" proclaimed Sir Radcliffe. "Yes, that and much more."

            "She was one of the most prolific of the Slayers. I think she killed more demons than even Buffy." Ripper shook his head, recalling the details. "She was quite beautiful, I'm told. Articulate, intelligent, and … brutal."

            "Yes, that was her. But she was in the right place at the right time, you see. Italy in the fourteen hundreds had everything a demon could want. A populace still superstitious about the old ways, but loosening their tie to the church. Not the official tie, of course – politics was everything then. But in their hearts they stopped believing – lured by the promises of the renaissance, and the money and decadence it brought. And there was power – power to be had, to be manipulated, to be bought and sold and traded.

            "People then would do anything for that power. Truth be told, they didn't give a second thought to summoning a demon if it would rid them of a political or economic rival, or even just a badly tempered neighbor. Olivia moved among them, and she had ample opportunity to do her work. It was what our Captain MacKenzie here would call a 'target rich environment', especially for vampires."

            "For vampires, really?" Ripper was fascinated. "Why is that, exactly?"

            "A vampire never really loses the nature of its former life, as you know. It only took a couple of the wealthy families to get a vampire or two in them, and suddenly they were trying to turn all of their friends. They were snobs, really – they'd feed off the common people, but they wouldn't sire them. Besides, the common people didn't know how to behave properly at parties, and what was the point of siring another vampire if they were going to turn out to be an _eternal bore?_

            "It didn't help that the wasted youth of the day partied all night and slept all day to begin with. Nothing's really changed, eh? Frankly, they didn't even have to hunt many of the others they sired. It became downright _fashionable." He shook his head at that, the foolishness of youth. "Of course, those were exactly the circles that Olivia was used to moving in. She was always invited to all the best parties, and all the __best vampires were bound to be there. Those were wild, wild days." He paused for moment and laughed quietly to himself, remembering the world as it was then._

             "Anyway, as I mentioned, they had no problem feeding on the common people, which is what Luigi and I were. Luigi was my Watcher, as I mentioned. He was a boy, really, barely eighteen. He and I were out for a late dinner one evening when we were beset upon by a band of the wastrels. Rich, young, undead, and 'out for a good time.'

            "They made short work of us, I'm afraid, and drank us both dry. I'm not sure quite what happened next, of course, because I was dead. But, as I said, we get over that. I awoke suddenly, felling my life returning, and there was Olivia. I saw her stake the last one, but there had been five who had attacked us. I found out later that she had managed to kill the other four.

            "She was quite shocked when I awoke. As you know, it normally takes several days of being dead for the siring process to complete. She assumed I was a vampire, of course. How else could I have been killed by them and then suddenly awaken? She acted … predictably."

            "You mean she staked you," Giles supplied. "My God, that must have hurt."

            "Indeed, it did," Sir Radcliffe replied. "And for the second time that night I died. I did not, however, turn to dust. She realized her mistake immediately, and it devastated her. At least until I got over that. When I awoke again, I found her draped across my body sobbing – covered in sweat and scrapes and vampire dust – and showing quite a bit of cleavage. We got along rather famously after that."

            Sir Radcliffe drifted into the past once more, remembering that time. The brocade dresses that cost more than a common man could make in a lifetime immediately swam into the view of his mind's eye. They were practically works of art in and of themselves. And then when placed upon a woman of Olivia's beauty – words could not describe the sight. It was an ecstasy of vision. But that was just the beginning. 

            The parties of the rich were marked by the most extraordinary food – food like he had never even imagined. He had been poor for two hundred years, but Olivia had taken him in. She had turned him into a gentleman, and he had gone into that world. The sights, the sounds – oh, the music! It was all so overwhelming, like being born once more, a whole new opportunity to see the world as if it were freshly made.

            He had learned so much from Olivia, including a purpose. She had a gift, and she used it to fight evil. He had a gift, too, and up until then he had only used it to survive. But she showed him another way – a way of purpose. She had taught him more than how to dress and have manners, she had taught him that with every great gift came a great responsibility. 

            He had laid his own plans, then. He had gotten a vision for what he could be – what he could be to his home, and to his fellow man. She had seen him as more than poor old man with a gift for survival. She had seen him as a warrior of light, given a great ability to make a difference in the darkness that all too often tried to envelope the world. And she saw him that way so strongly, that he began to see himself that way. And it had made all the difference in the world.

            Remembering that difference, he brought himself back with a shake. "Of course, dear Luigi was gone, but I was introduced to her watcher, and that is how I was able to put two and two together."

            Ripper was able to fill in the missing parts. Olivia would be loathe to tell anyone – especially her Watcher – that she had accidentally staked a normal human, even if this one did turn out to be immortal. The fact that it was an obvious and freakishly unavoidable mistake would have not lessened her disgrace in the least. For his part, Sir Radcliffe would be reluctant to reveal his special abilities to the Watchers. But he would use that knowledge and relationship. It would eventually lead, though the centuries, to him becoming that person whom the Watchers and the Queen would trust with powerful magic, to take and use to fight the Nazis.

            Sir Radcliffe continued, pulling Ripper from his revelry. "It was this that I revealed to Arinoth one beautiful night as we sat sipping claret. He had, I think, lost all hope of ever being able to achieve his dream – of being able to destroy or subjugate all demons. It was dream that had grown in his obsession and arrogance. He no longer believed the world would be a better place if he ridded it of all demonic influence. No, it could still revert to its old ways. It was only when he ruled it all, forever, would it be safe. And my tale of the Watchers reignited a spark of hope in him. I see now how he began planning then to take them over. It would take him three hundred years, but eventually he would have enough agents in place, enough power built up, enough people corrupted, that he could attempt to not only take control of the Slayer line, but to build an army of Slayers completely loyal to him. I didn't see it until it was almost too late, and I am grateful that both you and Captain MacKenzie were there to stop him.

            "He still has control of too much of the Watchers, though. And his mad plans are not yet done, I believe. He must be stopped, for all time. I don't know what his plan is, though; all I know is that your arrival here has made him move quickly, and he would only do that if a golden opportunity had presented itself. An opportunity that you brought, Mr. Giles.

            "Now, I have told you all. Will you tell me, within the bindings of this lodge, what is it that you brought with you?"

            Ripper realized that he could trust this man; no, more than that, he _had to trust this man. This was a battle that had been going on longer than he could conceive. That a being could plot for three hundred years before taking action was mind boggling. There was simply no telling how many layers of plots Arinoth had laid. His only hope lay in finding allies and ending this quickly; Arinoth would win any battle of patience and plotting. And here, in this room, were his best allies. _

            Ripper took a moment to clean his glasses, a motion meant to keep his hands busy as he collected his thoughts. If he spoke now, there would be no going back. The decision, though, seemed obvious. "I brought the most powerful witch on the planet with me – Willow Rosenberg."

            God help him if he was wrong about this.

  



	10. Chapter 10 The Magic and the Pain

**  
** Chapter 10 

The Magic and the Pain

_Thursday, __11:03 AM___

            Sir Radcliffe absorbed the news, the gravity around him seeming to shift into overdrive. Everything felt as if it weighed twice as much, the dust, the air, and even the sunshine streaming through the window seemed to bend a bit under the immensity of what Rupert Giles had just said. It seemed for a moment as if Sir Radcliffe had even stopped breathing, so intense was his far away gaze.

            A witch! Not just any witch, but _the_ witch. Willow Rosenberg, who had broken the power of the Ring of Arinoth, was now within its reach. In the battle with Madame LaFusce, Willow had dealt the Seventh Speaker of the Ring a mortal blow. Arinoth had not replaced her. 

            Sir Radcliffe had considered it odd, at first. Arinoth had come so close and seemed to still have the opportunity to fulfill his aim of taking control of the Slayer line. He could have replaced the Seventh and went on with another plan. Even though Faith and her guardians were now forewarned, they had barely survived the first attempt to take control. In fact, it would have been a more straightforward process to simply kill Faith and take control of the _next_ Slayer, one who was undoubtedly not so well protected. That would have meant a loss of only one Slayer in the army, an acceptable loss, all things considered.

            But Arinoth had not rushed to replace the Seventh Speaker. He had not attempted to take control of the Slayer line after the attempt on Faith. He had used a substitute for the Seventh Speaker for that operation in order to cast the visions into Faith's amulet. But that had been temporary – decidedly so for the substitute warlock, who was _dispatched subsequent to the mission's failure._

            No, Arinoth had another plan in mind. It was suddenly clear to Sir Radcliffe what that plan was – what it had been ever since that dark night in Sunnydale. Oh, he hadn't abandoned his plan to get the Slayer line, not with there being a good chance of success and the plans already being in motion. He had played that gambit and lost, but even with that, new plans were already in motion. 

            He had been planning to get Willow – to make her part of the Ring.

            Sir Radcliffe could visualize the fire in Arinoth's eyes – the fever. He had witnessed the young woman's power. Undoubtedly he had read Madame LaFusce's memories of the encounter before she'd died. He would have seen the raw, natural ability in the girl. He would have seen how she grasped the very essence of the magic she commanded, how naturally it came to her. Like a savant that could do factoring of ten digit numbers instantly, but couldn't explain to you how she did it.

            MacKenzie's recounting of the battle between the witches had been sparse – he had been going one on one with Sheffield at the time. But Sir Radcliffe had inferred much. He knew Madame LaFusce, by reputation, at least. He had detailed dossier's on all of Arinoth's people that he could identify. He could surmise how powerful the girl was, knowing what he knew about her opponent. But that was just surmise.

            The details he had received from Straznikof had filled out the perception. The tales had been whispered throughout the underlings in Arinoth's organization of how they had been defeated, by whom, and every detail of the battle. Of course, much of that was rumor, grown out of control as rumors will. But there was enough of the truth in it to gain some perception of what might have happened. There was enough consistency in the story to get an idea of the power involved.

            And now this – Ripper declaring her, "The most powerful witch on the planet." Quite an assessment! Not an exaggerated one, though; not from Ripper. Oh, he might be slightly self-deluded about her potential, but he wouldn't outright stretch the truth of it. Besides, he hadn't met every other witch on the entire planet, so it was impossible for him to be absolutely sure that she was it. But Ripper knew enough, and in making that statement it was a surety that if she wasn't _the most powerful witch, she was definitely in the top three._

            For most that would have settled the discussion then and there. But there was one more piece of evidence to consider, one that to Sir Radcliffe was far more telling. Arinoth wanted her. He had changed his plans for the Slayer line – if not abandoning them, then at least putting them on hold – in order to go after this girl. He had left a place at the very top of his organization for her. He had laid his plans very, very carefully so that he could gain control of _her, and through her the world. It was that, more than anything, that convinced Sir Radcliffe that she was quite possibly as powerful as Ripper said._

            Perhaps, though, Arinoth had not planned carefully enough. The more Sir Radcliffe thought through it, the more it became apparent. Arinoth would have begun building plots and webs designed to bring her to him, designed to draw her into his control before anyone knew what was happening. And those plots would have involved knowing where she was and what she was up to.

            No, he would not have relied on mercenaries trying to electronically bug Ripper's apartment in hopes of finding out where she had been hidden away. If things were going according to Arinoth's plans, Ripper could have never hidden her away. But he had, and Arinoth had no idea where she might be.

            Obviously, something had happened. Something had changed Arinoth's plans, thrown them all 'out the window', and now he was _reacting. His actions were rash, almost desperate. He was trying to salvage what he wanted, as if the opportunity to control her might be completely lost if he did not get hold of her _now_. That was likely, considering that Ripper had not just brought her to England, but had hidden her away and taken steps to make sure that she stayed that way._

            That brought up the next obvious question: what had happened? Sir Radcliffe took a very deep, shuddering breath and refocused his attention on the other two men in the room. The very act seemed to lift much of the gravity, as if in releasing his own mind from its revelry he somehow released the world around him from its own. He cocked his head a moment, thinking of how to ask the question; it took only a moment to realize that they didn't have time for political correctness. "What happened to the girl?"

            Ripper was stunned for a moment, taken off guard. That Sir Radcliffe had surmised that something had happened was testament to his astuteness. However, given the rest of the revelations of the last twenty-four hours, he hadn't really had time to adjust his expectations. The look of surprise on his face was undeniable.

            Sir Radcliffe smiled at him, blue eyes twinkling. "It's obvious that it was something significant. Arinoth is rushing his plans, which he hasn't done in a thousand years, and you have her hidden away. Knowing what it was, and why she is here, may help us understand what our enemy is up to, and what we can do about it."

            Ripper cocked his head, considering. At this point he had little to lose by revealing more. "It was quite tragic, actually. She was in love with another young woman, named Tara. I suppose you knew that, though, from MacKenzie's reports. They went through some very hard times, but managed to patch things up. They were, it seemed, destined to be together."

            "But something happened," Sir Radcliffe filled in. "Not to her – but to Tara."

            "She was killed, quite accidentally, by a stray bullet in a shooting." He took a deep breath, the pain of the loss still stinging. He'd always liked Tara, more so for how good she was for Willow. "What happened next was … extraordinary. She was fueled by grief. Grief and anger – or rage, actually. She completely gave into her power, it was the tap that brought forth the geyser. We had no idea how much power she had below the surface, and when it was finally let go it came out with no control, and only the darkest of emotions to direct it."

            Willow had been unstoppable … and totally dark. She had been everything in Ripper's nightmare from the day before (had it only been a day?) and so much more. She had walked into The Magic Box and simply absorbed every spell, every bit of knowledge, from every book in the place. 

            And then she'd gone out to hunt.

            She'd hunted down Warren, the one who had fired the fatal shot, and had extracted her revenge. She had hunted down his compatriots, Jonathan and Andrew, as well, but had been stopped from savaging them the way she had Warren. In the end, she had summoned up from the depths of Sunnydale's foothills a demonic temple, buried for ages, and had attempted to use it as a means of annihilating the entire planet. She had nearly succeeded, as well. 

            "So why bring her here?" MacKenzie asked that question, one of the few times he had spoken during the entire interview.

            "To learn control," Ripper replied. "At that point, the power was loose within her. We had no choice, really, she had to be taught to harness it, to direct it, and to control it without letting it control her." He shrugged, indicating the obviousness of the situation. "She's been hidden away with a coven I know, to be instructed on the use of her magic."

            Sir Radcliffe nodded, his eyes alight with understanding. "Yes," he said slowly, assembling the last of the pieces in his own mind. "Let me ask, was this the only choice?"

            Ripper looked at him for a long moment, and then shook his head. "We debated stripping her of her powers, but we decided that was too risky."

            "Of course, of course." Sir Radcliffe was sure, now. "Arinoth would have known, and he is not about to let you destroy such a source of power. He would have acted to prevent that, there's no question. But having her learn control would, in many ways, be even worse for him. He needs her vulnerable, uneducated. He probably hoped that he would be the one to tap that wellspring within her. And then he would be her guide, her mentor, her teacher." His head bobbed up eagerly in the recitation. It made sense, so much sense. "He's reacting now, completely out of control. He's being rash, and he's tipped his hand. He's exposed himself to MI-5, and they are not nearly the pawns he believes they are. I cannot begin to estimate how long this advantage will last, but I don't imagine it will be much longer."

            He looked up at MacKenzie, who met his gaze. Something unspoken passed between them – not magic, just understanding. Two experts, thinking along the same lines, and giving each other enough non-verbal clues to confirm their mutual understanding of the situation and what was to be done.

            The moment ended, and MacKenzie rolled his neck, several pops emanating from it. He was loosening up, getting ready for action. It gave Ripper the sudden image of a large jungle cat stretching out, getting ready for its hunt. "Once we get her, where do we bring her? Here?"

            Sir Radcliffe thought for a moment. "No," he said. "Find a safe place using the old network, in London I think. There are many there, and it is easy to hide. I will make other plans and contact you when I can."

            "And MI-5?" MacKenzie wanted to know whether or not to go it alone, or to rely on potential allies.

            "Use your judgment," Sir Radcliffe replied. "But the safety of the girl is our highest priority."

            "Understood."

* * *

            "Finding that girl is our highest priority." Jonathan Trimble spoke quietly as he walked down one of the back corridors of Thames House. Jerome nodded. He had provided the information that Miles Winthrop had found. He'd also let Jonathan know that they had taken Miles hostage as the only means of keeping the information secret. "Unfortunately, I just got a call from Eric. He found the contact message – it's at Charing Cross Station at eleven-thirty. I imagine Sir Blackwell will be there himself."

            "How do you want to play it?" Jerome asked. He was completely at Jonathan's disposal. 

            "Sir Blackwell knows you, so I think you need to be the one to make the Charing Cross appointment." Jonathan thought through the rest of the team, thinking of what he might possibly be able to accomplish with the resources he had. "Have Alicia take Mr. Winthrop to Eric's place; Eric can meet her there and baby-sit Miles while he continues to look for messages. He needs to do an archive search and find everything that has passed between Sir Blackwell and Straznikof." Jerome nodded. It was obvious that they couldn't continue to hold a hostage in the MI-5 records room.

            "After that, I want Alicia to back you up with Blackwell and Straznikof. I don't trust them yet." Jerome quirked a lip, considering. He wasn't debating whether or not to do as he was asked, he was establishing the best way to utilize the resource.

            "I'll keep her on Sir Blackwell," he said. "I'll stick with Straznikof as soon as I can make him."

            "Sounds good," Jonathan concurred. "Keep Darla here as long as possible, keeping an eye on Jen and her project. I'm headed to Worcester." They had reached the car park and Jonathan was climbing into a black BMW. "It's two and half hours there, so I need this kept quiet for at least that much time."

            "Can do," Jerome replied. "I think we know what can go wrong, and we've got it covered."

            "It's the things that we don't know about that can go wrong that I'm worried about." Jonathan sped off.

* * *

            Ethan Rayne smiled. There were definite advantages to house arrest. In prison, his options had been so limited. He couldn't order in spell ingredients, for instance. That would've been very, very frowned upon. But under house arrest, he simply had to make a few phone calls.

            It had taken a while to find the right spell. He knew translocation spells, several of them, in fact. They all had a similar problem, though. While they teleported you from one place to another, they also transported everything attached to you. Your clothes, jewelry, eyeglasses … and electronic devices locked to your ankle. What he needed was something that would transport just _him, and nothing else. _

            It had taken quite some time to work out the construct, but in the end it proved to be simplicity itself. He simply had to transport himself _dimensionally, not in space. There were any number of dimensions where the portal between them could only support the human being, not any of its earthly accoutrements. The problem with those, though, was that they tended to be one way tickets. Such locations were generally quite inhospitable, and perhaps more importantly, contained creatures who delighted in torturing humans, especially uninvited ones._

            So, he needed to first set up the way back. In order to do that, he needed a method of triggering it. Since he couldn't bring anything with him, that could prove a problem. But then he realized that the rule only applied to objects _from_ earth. If he had an object that was originally from that dimension in the first place, it would traverse the portal quite easily. 

            That is how he decided to 'borrow' a L'Korsunth stone. The bright yellow crystal could be used as a catalyst for spells – but only in the L'Kor dimension of hell. Here on Earth they made very nice paper weights, unless you were trying to bind a L'Korsunth demon, which was something that, in general, only morons attempted to do. However, Ethan knew just such a moron. Once he had acquired the stone, inscribed all the proper symbols on it and prepared his receiving place, he had his ticket home.

            The first spell had transported him through a twirling, mind bending wormhole to a cavern filled with sulfurous gas and heat like a blast oven. It was, to all observations, the very model that had been used to come up with all of the Biblical descriptions of Hell. It was also populated by a particularly nasty little species of demons, who reacted to his presence there instantly. As soon as he dropped into the darkened cavern, they were howling and screeching, poking him with small, barbed sticks. 

            He had, though, pre-staged the return spell, and it took only a moment through gasps of pain to utter the final sequence of words, and, upon shattering the crystal on the ground, to be transported back through another dizzying pan-dimensional flight to his receiving point – just three feet from where he had started. 

            He lay there, panting, sweating, and bleeding … but smiling. He lay naked on the floor of his ramshackle apartment, but three feet away, in the center of another pentagram, was a pile of his clothes … and his ankle bracelet. 

            He was free of MacKenzie's threat, and now he would get his revenge.

* * *

            MacKenzie loaded up the Jeep with their bags and turned to say goodbye to his employer, who had grown into his friend. "Take care, old man," he said gruffly. 

            Sir Radcliffe returned his smile, and his handshake. "Take this," he said, handing them each an envelope embossed with a heavy wax seal. "In case something happens, you'll need it." He shrugged. "I decided to take a lesson from Dumas." The statement was mysterious, but offered no opportunity for comment. They climbed into the Jeep, and as an afterthought he added, "Don't forget to wear your disguises."

            Ripper and MacKenzie put the enchanted keys over their necks and slipped them down into their shirts. It was time to go get Willow.

  



	11. Chapter 11 All the Pieces in Motion

**  
** Chapter 11 

All the Pieces in Motion

_Thursday, __1:36 PM___

            Willow walked back out the barn, her head slumped down. Her red hair cascaded around her face in limp bunches of largely split ends. A thought occurred to her, just for a moment, that what she _really_ needed was a hot oil treatment. The thought was dismissed as soon as it occurred to her, though. Her hair was as limp as her motivation. 

            After awaking in the barn, she had eventually wandered into the main farmhouse for breakfast. She could hear the animated discussion in the house as she approached, but the conversation died as soon as she entered. Gretta tried to put on a brave face, but it was clear that they were all scared. The moment of respite they had been enjoying over the breakfast table was shattered by the stark reality that Willow's very presence represented. She was a human buzz-kill.

            As she walked, she tried to think of clever wording for how she felt. She was a pariah. _No, that's not quite right, _she thought. She mentally reviewed her mental list of obscure references. If Xander had been with her, he would have found the right words, or at least they would have fed off of one another, generating idea after idea until they had come up with just the right phrase.

            _Jonah, she thought. That was the right sentiment, at least. An unwelcome and unlucky figure, who, by circumstance, was thrust upon another group, who would suffer their own misfortune because of it. Unfortunately, she had seen the Veggie Tales version of the story, and she had a hard time picturing herself as an asparagus, even a computer generated one._

            Actually, she felt like Angela Landsbury, she finally concluded. It was like everyone here had figured out the hidden truth to _Murder She Wrote: every time that woman shows up, somebody dies. It was like they were all watching her and whispering, _Oooh___ look, Mrs. Fletcher just showed up. That means that one of us is about to get it! Which of us is it going to be? She tried humming a few bars of __Bippity_ Boppity Boo_, hoping that the image of a much younger Angela Landsbury as a kindly witch defending England during WWII would change her perceptions, but it was to no avail._

            She simply didn't belong here, no one wanted her here, and the only reason they were putting up with her was that Giles had persuaded them. After all she had done, Giles was still standing up for her. She owed him everything, and she didn't feel at all like she deserved it.

            Because of that, she felt that she couldn't let him down. So despite all her frustration, despite the emotions roiling like a thunderstorm off the coast, she knew she had to do more. She had to study, she had to practice, and she had to _master_ her control of the magic. Only when she could do _that_ could she consider the debt to her mentor paid back, and even then only in part. She didn't think she'd ever be able to pay him back fully.

            After breakfast, which was a miserable affair, she went to spend some time with Gretta. She really didn't understand the English concept of breakfast. Well, she understood it, intellectually at least. But where was the _coffee? What she wouldn't do for a double hazelnut non-fat latte! She thought about conjuring one, but both Gretta and Giles had been firm; she was only to practice such magic as was assigned to her by Gretta. No freelancing, no improvisation._

            It was like she was back in grade school again. She remembered first grade. She had been instructed on which letters to print, in what order. Put the vertical line of the 'T' first, then the cross-bar. _No, Miss Rosenberg, you're doing it wrong_. Florence Topang, how she had hated that woman! Whoever had told her that she should be allowed to teach first graders should have had their head examined. Willow had always been an overachiever, so she had prominently placed the phrase 'Ms. Topang smell like an old fish,' across the top of her paper in cursive. It hadn't occurred to her that, despite all appearances in class, Ms. Topang was perfectly capable of reading cursive. That had been quite an awakening for young Miss Willow Rosenberg.

            This seemed to be the same way. No options, no deviation. Summon this, levitate that. Do it exactly this way. Use this incantation, move your fingers like that. Ugh! It was infuriating – she was capable of so much more. But she had promised Giles, and she was going to keep that promise.

            The morning's lesson had been on bending sunlight. At first, it had seemed like a highly advanced topic. Willow knew enough about quantum mechanics to understand what the physics behind such a project might be. She had been disappointed, however, to discover that the process was actually quite simple. Rather than bending the light directly, interacting with the photons themselves, the witch formed a prism from the moisture in the air. Collect the air, the moisture, the ambient airborne particles, and create a small, delicate prism. Form it, control it, and push it into the path of the sunbeam. Change its shape, turn it, and spread and bend the sunlight to where you wanted it.

            It was, to Willow's estimation, a crude approach. It would be much more elegant, she thought to herself, to form small pockets of very intense gravity to bend the light waves. Or perhaps alter the potential probabilities in the immediate vicinity, so that the light bent of its own accord as it traveled through that space. 

            That, however, was not the exercise for today. Today was forming prisms out of moisture, and so she was off to the barn to practice. On the one hand, it presented less of challenge. It had rained the night before, and so she had less of challenge to find the moisture in the air and gather it. She justified it to herself by arguing that the farmhouse wasn't all that well insulated to begin with, so the difference in moisture levels was pretty much academic.

            On the plus side, the barn was private, which was good for her concentration. It was away from the rest of the coven, which was good for them. And she liked the way the sun filtered through the aged boards of the wood. The sunbeams which worked their way through the maze of siding and knotholes was … pretty. It would be pleasant to reflect it around. 

            She sighed once again. Not even the thoughts of pretty sunbeams could cheer her up. She was in a funk, and she started again on her cycle of thoughts as she walked through the barn door. So obsessed was she with those inner conversations that she didn't even notice the form of the demon Mr. Gray standing there.

            But then he introduced himself.

* * *

            Jonathan Trimble was pushing his vehicle across the M4 for all he was worth. He thought that by sheer force of will he could make the miles fall away faster. They were doing their best, but the odds were stacked against them. If the ruse was discovered before he could secure the girl, they would miss their opportunity. Jenny Thatcher would call in local support to cordon off the area, and then she and Mr. Turcey would helicopter their way over. If he didn't get to her first, he wouldn't stand a chance.

            He was relying on a handful of circumstance. First of all, Miles Winthrop was unlikely to be missed anytime soon. He was simply too low on the totem poll for anyone to take notice of except his immediate supervisor. That supervisor would be unlikely to report the analyst to Jenny Thatcher. He wouldn't assume that the boy had been kidnapped, he'd assume that the young man was shirking his duty. He would attempt to find him and discipline him before Jenny found out; that kind of action on the part of a subordinate would reflect equally as badly on the supervisor.

            Secondly, Miles Winthrop had been looking in places he wasn't supposed to be. There was simply no way that Jenny could know that he had stumbled across something that had nothing to do with his job assignment. Even if they noticed him missing, they wouldn't immediately connect it with any particular line of inquiry.

            Then there was the fact that Jenny and Mr. Turcey weren't getting on very well. That would limit their efficiency. He was relying on an increasing level of frustration and disorganization in the team. He couldn't imagine how any other pair of fugitives would have been able to evade the net that had been spread by Jenny and her team. But he wasn't dealing with any other pair of fugitives; she was dealing with an experienced SAS commando being supported by a splinter of a government agency.

            It wasn't just any agency, either. Sir Radcliffe Holm, of the Special Projects directorate, was a legend in the community. His influence dated back to before World War II, and no one could confirm how old he really was. Only that he was the very best, and anyone working for him would be just as good.  That meant that the team would have to be at peak efficiency to have any hope of locating them. With all the inner conflict going on, it would take an act of God for the two of them to be found – or an act of a devil, more likely.

            He just wondered who, exactly, that devil might turn out to be.

            In the meantime, he had a huge lead. He put the accelerator down and moved around several other cars in his way. He was pushing it for all he was worth. He had to reach Willow Rosenberg before anyone else did. It seemed to him that the one risk was Analyst (2nd Class) Miles Winthrop. He hoped Eric was keeping him under wraps.

* * *

            "How did you manage to get the fifth monitor running without the video card IRQs conflicting with the sound card?" Miles Winthrop was pointing to Eric's home computer setup. Alicia had escorted him out of Thames House at gunpoint and brought him here. He was, of course, confused.

            These were members of his own team who had taken him hostage. These were people that he was supposed to trust, people whom he had run into in the break room. But what they were doing was wrong … very wrong. And he had an obligation to his country to stop them.

            He realized suddenly that he wasn't paying attention to the other Analyst's reply, so he tuned back in to Eric's explanation. The man was a geek of the first order, and Miles knew that he needed to distract him, to get him talking. Miles needed to give himself an opportunity, and the way to do that was to show how much alike he and Eric were. So he did what was necessary, as his mind worked.

            He had missed the main part of the explanation, and he had to cover quickly. He suddenly realized that this was an opportunity, if only he had the courage to take it. "I don't understand," he stuttered out. "How is it cabled up?"

            Eric thought for a moment, starting to speak twice but stopping when he realized that he couldn't quite explain it. "Let me show you," he said suddenly, inspiration dawning. He bent over to pull the mini-tower out from under the desk. That was last thing he remembered.

            Miles stood over the crumpled form holding a cricket trophy. He was shaking, but he had done it. He had seized the opportunity. As soon as Eric had bent over, Miles had grabbed the trophy from the desktop and struck him on the back of the head, just as he had been instructed in the self-defense class. It had worked exactly as they had predicted. Eric lay motionless on the floor.

            Miles looked around. He was cuffed to the radiator, and he had barely managed to get Eric close enough to strike. Now he had, and he wasn't sure what to do next. He looked around, trying to determine his options. Just out of reach sat a cordless phone. He reached out.

            Slowly, painfully, he stretched. He could not quite get to it. But he had to, he knew that. There was little choice in the matter, he knew what had to be done. It was only a matter of inches. Gritting his teeth, he placed his foot against the wall. He breathed once, twice, three times. He leaned in … and shoved. The pain was blinding, almost disabling. But with a dislocated shoulder, he was able to reach the last few inches and grab the phone.

            He dialed Jenny Fletcher.

* * *

            Jerome looked around Charing Cross Station. The crowds were thinner than at the height of the day, but they couldn't in any way be called thin. He flipped through the paper, being careful to give the appearance of movement. People would notice if he never turned the page, and that would give him away as sure as anything.

            He identified a dozen likely suspects. He was looking for a Russian immigrant, and the type was easy to identify. The Slavic features were slighly different from the other Englishmen around him, but to the trained eye he could tell what he was looking for. It was suspect number nine who finally made contact with Sir Blackwell. 

            To anyone else, it was nothing. They sat on opposite sides of bench, back to back and two seats apart. Sir Blackwell was munching on some nuts; Straznikof was doing the crossword puzzle. He couldn't make out what was said, but he didn't have to. The job was to make the contact, and then to follow him.

            He waited, watching them. He turned the paper, and in that brief flash Sir Blackwell saw him. The words he spoke to Straznikof were a sharp bark, and Straznikof was off and running. Jerome was off in pursuit, but Sir Blackwell grabbed him.

            "What the Hell are you doing?" he screamed. He didn't care who was watching. Jerome pushed past him, trying to not lose sight of his prey. Straznikof jumped into the subway tunnel and began running down the tracks. Jerome was in pursuit. It looked like Jonathan was right to not fully trust Sir Blackwell.

            The darkness was punctuated by the occasional safety light. The echoes of their feet were undercut by the distant sounds of the train. Although running through the tunnels of 'the tube' was discouraged, it was not physically impossible. But the trains could be deadly. More importantly to Jerome, having to dodge a train could result in losing his quarry.

            Jerome had played every sport there was to play, between prep school and college. He played football, rugby, and lacrosse. All of them required extensive running. As a result, he had no problem outpacing Straznikof. It was only a question of what would reach him first, Jerome or the train. 

            Jerome reached him just moments before the train. He reached out and grabbed Straznikof from behind and slammed him – hard – against the concrete wall of the tube tunnel. Jerome held him tightly against the wall as the train passed them. Just inches from Jerome's back, a hundred tons of metal shot by at eighty kilometers per hour.

            When it passed, they were both breathing heavily, nearly in shock. Jerome recovered first. He spun the man around and slammed him into the tunnel wall. "I'm here to help," he managed to squeeze out between gasps. "Why are you running?" He knew it was a dumb question – the man was an informant on one of the most powerful organizations in the country, one that was literally above the law.

            Straznikof smiled, a bizarre, almost mad smile. "There is no help," he said, his own breathing ragged. "You don't know. You don't understand. There is no help for me any longer." He started to laugh, a crooked, twisted laugh.

            Jerome started to protest, but as he watched Anthony Straznikof began to smolder, and then he combusted. Literally. He burst into flame, and laughed until he began to scream. Jerome stepped back and watched in shocked disbelief as the man spontaneously incinerated. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

            Another train was approaching. He had no choice, he had to head to the next station. He ran, the image of the dying man fresh in his mind.

* * *

            Darla sat at her desk trying to look busy. In truth, she was worried. They were way beyond the limits of anything resembling intelligence. She was sure that it was all going to go wrong, but she wasn't sure when. She knew that it was only a moment until the proverbial 'other shoe' would drop.

            She wasn't wrong.

            Jenny Thatcher approached Darla's desk with two officers. "Darla, where's Jonathan?" she asked. Her tone allowed no misinterpretation. The deceit has been found out – they were caught.

            "I don't know." Darla lifted her head with the declaration. She was going out with pride, with dignity. She wasn't going to be cowed by this young woman. She kept her head up as she was escorted from the room, officially in custody. She held her head up until she was placed in a cell, alone. Then she began to cry.

  



	12. Chapter 12 All Hell Breaks Loose

**  
** Chapter 12 

All Hell Breaks Loose

_Thursday, __3:58 PM___

            "Bloody Hell! That lousy son of a bitch!" Jenny Thatcher was in a towering rage. She screamed over the noise of the helicopter rotors, although the headsets they were all wearing made such volume unnecessary. The pilot did his best to ignore the conversation, intent on flying them to Worcester. There was no chance, though, of that happening. Jen was just too intent on expressing her emotions.

            "He knew," she continued on, heedless of whether or not anyone was paying any attention. "Trimble and his entire crew have been working behind my back, trying to derail this investigation. There is no way that Crombey didn't know about that." She shook her head vehemently. She was more than angry – she had been betrayed; betrayed by her own superior, by her coworkers, by everyone, it seemed. She couldn't possibly trust any of them ever again.

            Trusting them was the furthest thing from her mind right now, though. She was intent on two things. First, she was going to complete this mission. She was going to find Giles and MacKenzie and she was going to bring them to justice. She was going to recover the Weber Institute's property, and she was going to be bloody hero.

            Then she was going to see Crombey and Trimble destroyed.

            She had the connections to do it, even if it meant stretching every relationship in her life to the breaking point. That's what it would mean if she simply wanted to dispatch them for political purposes with no other mitigating circumstances. But there were mitigating circumstances – the men had all but committed treason. It would be nothing for her to destroy them.

            She would destroy them, of course. They had done more than break the law, more than violate their oaths. They had embarrassed _her_. They had played her and turned her into a fool. No one got away with that. If it took every ounce of blood she had, she would see them buried.

            First things first, though. She needed to get back whatever had been taken from the Weber Institute. That meant that she needed to corner Gretta Stevenson and find out what Rupert Giles had wanted from her, why he had called her and then she suddenly disappeared. She had more than enough evidence to hold the woman, to justify an arrest. The woman was a material witness to a terrorist act. She only had to get to her before anyone else did.

            She had acted immediately upon hearing from Miles. She was shocked, of course, that one of her own agents had been kidnapped and held hostage by another team from the same office. However, she didn't let that paralyze her. She had immediately swung into action.

            Fortunately, Miles had an extraordinary memory. He was able to communicate what he had found – address and all – over the phone to her. Her next command had been to mobilize local law enforcement. By now they should have the entire place cordoned off. Nothing was getting in or out – especially not Jonathan Trimble.

            Her next action had been to order a team to pick up miles and take that stupid whelp Eric Montegue into custody. She had issued arrest orders for Trimble's whole team, including Trimble himself. They had then walked over and taken Darla into custody. She had no doubt that the woman was simply following orders, but that was hardly the issue. She needed to break this conspiracy, and she needed to break it _now_. It was the only way she could take control of the rest of the investigation. And she was determined that she was going to do that – no matter who tried to interfere.

            "How much longer?" she snapped at the pilot. At least the pilot assumed it was directed to him, since he was the only one who could answer that question.

            "Twenty minutes," he replied, keeping his tone as professional as possible. She was on an absolute warpath, and he had no intention of getting in its way. "Twenty five at the outside."

            She sunk deeper into the passenger's seat, absently biting a nail. _Good, she thought__. In less than half an hour, I'll have everything under control. And no one is going to stop me._

* * *

            Willow swallowed, trying her best to remain cordial in the face of absolute terror. She'd heard the tales of Mr. Gray from Spike. He was … dangerous. She reflected that saying that was like saying that a nuclear weapon could lead to a bad case of sunburn. Mr. Gray was as powerful as any demon – or god for that matter – that they had ever encountered. And yet, here he was, attempting to have what passed for a normal conversation with her.

            Mr. Gray cocked his head at her, trying to assess whether or not his words had made any impact on her. She was, to his assessment, nearly too scared to do any good. That wouldn't do – no, not at all. He needed her to follow his instructions, and he needed her to do so without question.

            He turned his gaze to the threads of fate, of destiny – the very fabric of reality. He could see how the pattern was weaving. While it was impossible to truly see the future, he could see what was being woven into the fabric of reality, and what picture it would likely form, at least in the short term. To his sight, the 'short term' was the next century or two, which he considered to be quite enough.

            The thread of Willow Rosenberg was a bright silver, cutting in and out of the woof and waft of the rest of the universe. She had a pattern she was forming, and Arinoth was attempting to distort it. The man was pulling threads left and right; not the small ones of normal human destiny – Mr. Gray could care less about those – but the silver threads that meant the most fundamental differences in the future. 

            Mr. Gray couldn't allow that.

            In this instance, it meant getting Willow into the hands of three very specific men – men whose threads of destiny were converging on this point in time and space. Those three men, and them only, would make the difference in the thread that was Willow. And she, in turn, would make the difference in the future.

            She was being … obstinate. It was a flaw of the species, he understood. They couldn't just do as they were told, they had to negotiate for all the things that didn't matter in the long run. Like the rest of this coven – she wanted them to be kept from harm. In the end, their lives were short, and their threads made no more than the merest details on the fabric of the universe. And yet, Willow was insisting.

            Insisting! Could you believe it? It had been nearly a millennium since someone had _insisted to Mr.Gray and lived to speak of it. He sighed. Perhaps he was simply getting old, but a thousand years ago he would have annihilated her out of hand for merely thinking of it. And yet, here he was, listening to all of her arguments and passion – all purely intentioned, at least – and wondering what he should do. _

            Time was running short. Already the local law enforcement was gathering around the farm. The players in this drama – both the good and the evil – would be in place soon. He would need to take action, and that meant getting Willow to take action.

            After a long moment, he relented. "All right," he said, drawing the words out of the very depths of his gravelly voice. "We can go tell the others, but they will need to find their own way out. I cannot make a path for you and for them at the same time." It was a lie, he could easily clear paths for both of them. It wasn't really in his interest to do so, though. He simply needed her to cooperate.

            Willow nodded, her body still shaking. "Okay, let's go," she said. She turned and left the barn, walking towards the farm house. She half hoped that he wouldn't follow, but when she gave a brief look back, she saw him just a few steps behind. She resisted the urge to break into a run.

            They went in through the kitchen door, but no one was there. She knew it was unlikely that they would be. They would be gathered in the living room ostensibly practicing, but more than likely gossiping. She led the way through the hall, but motioned for him to wait while she went in first.

            Predictably, all conversation stopped as soon as she walked in. Only Gretta seemed to have the courage or conviction to speak to her. "What is it, dear?" she asked. Willows fingers twisted in front of her. 

            "There's someone here who needs to talk to you," she said. She was going to add more, but one of the other girls spoke first.

            "What are you talking about?" the girl hissed. She had taken an immediate dislike to Willow, and took every opportunity to show it. "No one could have gotten past our wards without us knowing about it. You must be imagining things." The girl nodded her head in triumph, having successfully put the upstart _colonist in her place. She was about to add more when Gretta intervened._

            "Portia!" she snapped, "That will be quite enough." She turned her eyes on Willow, her voice trying to take a kind tone. "Despite her rudeness, Portia is correct. If anyone had approached the farm, we would've known." She smiled her best smile, but a moment later it fell. Her face paled, and she took in her breath with a sharp hiss.

            Willow was alarmed by the sudden change and was about to respond, but a voice from behind her stopped her in her tracks. "Perhaps it would better if _I explained," said Mr. Gray, walking into the room._

* * *

            Although Ripper and MacKenzie had left well after Jonathan Trimble, the distance between Llandrindod Wells and Worcester was considerably less than the distance from London to the same place. So it was that they were the first to approach the police roadblock just beyond the farmhouse where Willow and the rest of the coven resided. 

            In their magical disguises they aroused no suspicion from the officers. They were simply given directions around the place they sought. They were careful to explain that they needed to go _through_ that area, but there was no help for it. The tension on the small road was palpable. 

            MacKenzie and Ripper retreated to their Jeep, in order to strategize what to do. They stood by the doors, bent in conversation. They needed to find a way to get into Willow, but it seemed that the authorities were one step ahead of them. That simply wouldn't do. They had to come up with another way. MacKenzie considered the road before them and fetched a map from the glove box. Perhaps, with the jeep, there was a way through the cordon. They spread the map on the hood of the jeep, contemplating it, oblivious to what was going on around them.

* * *

            Ethan Rayne peered deeply into the scrying dish. It was one of the oldest conjurings in the world. A silver bowl, filled with water, within which the caster could view what was happening elsewhere. Ethan had tied the scrying the bowl to the keys which he had cast, and which formed the focus for the magical disguises. By tying to the keys, he was able to spy on MacKenzie and Ripper. 

            In the bowl, he saw them interact with the officers, and then go over and begin looking at the map. It was the perfect opportunity for his revenge. He only had to act. Ethan smiled. He was going to enjoy this.

            Within the circle he had cast, Ethan could invoke the magic he had already laid. The principle of binding had been used on the talismans he had created. He could symbolize them here, and what he did to the symbol would be done to the real thing, no matter where it was. It was the simplest principle of magic – create the model, tie it to the actual, and what was done to one was done to the other. Simple. Effective.

            However, the keys that he had made as the focus of his spell would be difficult to manipulate. He had been forced by circumstance to create them in the presence of Ripper, who would have been able to tell if he was doing anything amiss. That was where the subtlety had to be employed – subtlety and careful pre-planning. 

            Within his circle of power, he took two small loops of string. He hadn't been able to manipulate the talismans he had made, but Ripper and MacKenzie hadn't even questioned the twine he had hung them on. That was a different story altogether. The binding was already complete. He simply had to manipulate them.

            The keys had to be hung around their necks for spell to work. He reflected on that fact as he cut the two loops.

* * *

            It was a sudden shock for the officer when he looked over at the Jeep and noticed the two most wanted men in the entire British Isles standing there. He could swear – and would, later on – that they were nothing like the two men he had spoken to earlier. Yet there they were, dressed in the same clothes, in the same position looking at the map. But where there had been two complete strangers a moment before, now stood Rupert Giles and Collum MacKenzie: wanted terrorists, armed and dangerous.

            For their part, the two men were so completely absorbed in looking at the map that it took them several moments to realize that the odd sensation they had just felt was the their disguise talismans slipping off their necks. It seemed to dawn on them both at about the same time, and they looked at each other in a minor panic. By silent agreement, they started moving to get into the jeep. If they could get going before they were noticed, they could rethink their plan.

            The moved as casually as possible, but they had already been noticed. The officer on duty began to blow his whistle, screaming, "Stop! Stop!" That alerted the other officers, and set Mac and Ripper to running. They leapt into their vehicle and revved it to life. Mac hit the gas and peeled, heading directly for the officers.

            Ripper grabbed on to a handhold, trying desperately not to panic. Mac collided with the police vehicle that blocked the turnoff leading to the farm. He hadn't needed to tell Ripper to brace himself, his intentions were obvious from the moment they were discovered. They really had no choice – they had to get to Willow before Arinoth did. If the police were here, then it was only a matter of time before the MI-5 arrived. Once that happened, Willow would be on her way to Arinoth and no one would be able to stop it. 

            The collision had shifted the police vehicle aside, almost but not quite enough for them to pull through. Mac kept the accelerator pressed to the floor, and the Jeep's tires squealed and smoked under the strain. He wasn't about to give in, though. Steadily, over the next three seconds, a space was pushed aside enough for them to pull through. Those seconds seemed to last forever, as officers shouted at them and banged on the door glass with their batons. But at the last they shot through, like a cork erupting from a champagne bottle. The shouting officers were left behind in a flash.

            "Good thing they didn't have guns," Ripper commented, his heart in his throat.

            Mac looked over at him, his face grim. "They were just there to keep out casual traffic; they weren't supposed to be arresting anyone. They're the outer cordon. In a moment here we should run into Special Section. They will have guns." The British equivalent of a SWAT team, Special Section had formed the inner cordon. They were the ones who were prepared to go in after whomever and whatever was inside. They were only waiting for orders from MI-5, which would surely come as soon as they arrived.

            Mac hit the brakes, sending the jeep into a mild skid on the dirt road. He used the moment to take a sharp turn, and then accelerated again. The jeep shot off the road and over a small cow path into the field beyond. The vehicle knocked the gate aside, which wasn't all that difficult considering how ancient and rusted it was. They began bouncing their way across the field, orthogonal to where they wanted to go. 

            "There's a rise up ahead, not much more than a hillock, but we should be able to go around it and make for the back side of the cattle pens. It'll be a stretch out in the open, and they'll be looking for us, but it's the smallest exposure I can come up with." Mac had been looking through that exact route on the map when their talismans had been magically cut from their necks. Ripper, familiar with the farm, had pointed it out to him, explaining the layout of the farm on the map. MacKenzie had formed that information into a plan. It wasn't a good approach, but it was the least bad. He had hoped that with some more study they might be able to come up with something better, but time had run out for that.

            The promised hillock came into view. It wasn't very high, but it was long and ran in a crescent around the southeast section of the property. It would keep them out of view until they broke past the other side. From there it would be nearly a hundred yards before they reached the old dairy buildings. Special Section would be looking for them there. Without question, the other officers had radioed ahead. 

            Assuming they survived that, they still had to find a way to get back out.

* * *

            Jonathan Trimble slowed as he approached the turnoff. Officers were racing about, shouting in obvious consternation. One of the vehicles had been smashed aside. An officer approached the vehicle to wave it on, but Trimble held up his identification. "What's going on?" he asked.

            "Those two terrorists – they just broke through the barricade. Special Section is waiting to intercept them on the road." The officer pointed out the direction, which was actually quite obvious. "I thought you guys were arriving by helicopter?"

            It took Jonathan only a moment to take in the full situation. If a Special Section cordon was already in place, then they had been discovered by Jenny Thatcher's team. Jen was undoubtedly the person in the helicopter who was coming. Giles and MacKenzie were already here, intent on keeping Willow from being taken by Turcey. That left him mere minutes – possibly seconds – to turn the situation around.

            "Listen to me," he shouted to the officer over the confusion and sirens in the background. "The situation has changed. Give me your radio." He gave a quick sequence of instructions to the Special Section team. Then he hit the accelerator and took off down the road towards the farmhouse. He was running a gambit, but he really had no choice.

* * *

            No shots were fired at the jeep as it raced around the end of the hillock and towards the dairy buildings. It was clear why – the special section was already on the move. They were closing on the farmhouse as fast as the jeep, armed and ready to take control. To Ripper and Mac, it looked like they had arrived too late.

* * *

            Jenny Thatcher's helicopter landed halfway down the access road, close to where Ripper and Mac had turned off. She was expecting to see an entire array of Special Section vehicles and personnel waiting there. Instead, there was only one, with a handful of officers.

            _Incompetence! she shouted in her own mind. _Could anything else go wrong?_ She leapt out of the helicopter, ignoring the safety protocols and charging up to the officer who was apparently in charge. Behind her trailed her assistant Bryan and Mr. Turcey, who had ridden with her. They were more cautious than she, but quickly hurried to catch up with her once they were out of the rotors' deadly range. _

            "Where the hell is everyone?" she shouted at the officer. 

            "Jenny Thatcher?" he inquired. She rolled her eyes and stomped one foot, then glared daggers at him. He waited patiently until she nodded. His hand reached to grip the service pistol strapped to his hip. At the same time, the other Special Section officers lifted their rifles, covering the three of them and the pilot. "You're under rest," he said, his voice steely, "by the order of Her Majesty's Secret Service. Do not move – we have orders to shoot."

            Jenny was so shocked she couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to.

  



	13. Chapter 13 Run, Run Away

**  
** Chapter 13 

Run, Run Away

_Thursday, __4:20 PM___

            "Spread out, detain everyone. Find the American." Jonathan was shouting orders to the Special Section team, who had moved in to surround the house and barn. They moved out, dressed in body armor and masks, carry heavy infantry weapons. They moved forward with absolute precision, leapfrogging precisely, always keeping weapons to bear. Five men moved towards the front entrance to the house, another four to the back. Six moved through the yard to the chicken coop and the barn. Still others formed a perimeter around their personnel carriers and jeeps.

            Jonathan paced back and forth, anxious about finding the girl before his bluff came crashing down around his ears. It was only a matter of time, he knew; he had a handful of minutes – possibly less than that. Everything depended on finding Willow Rosenberg and getting out. If he could, Giles and MacKenzie would come to him. Then he would have everything he needed to unravel this mess. 

            As he paced, he tapped out a text message on his wireless phone: 'Operation Compromised. Go to ground.' He sent it out to the distribution list for his entire team. Then, when no one else was looking, he tossed the phone away. That device was now compromised. It was the phone he had been issued by the agency, and they would be able to locate it at will.

            They had probably located him with it while he was still driving, no doubt expecting to capture him here. He had arrived only moments ahead of them, and the lies he had told the Special Section unit were designed to simply buy him time. It wouldn't buy him much, but if he got out of here with the girl, that's all he would need.

* * *

            Sergeant Brock Burgess eased through the barn door slowly, his weapon held at the ready. The muzzle was pointed down, not directly at the ground, but not held straight out, either. In a snap he could bring it up and to the ready, but holding it up too high would give him away as he came around a corner or near a doorway. 

            He was nervous, only a fool wouldn't be. These were dangerous situations. No one knew what they might encounter, how many men might be waiting for them, or how heavily armed they might be. Each step might be his last. But Brick was a professional, and that meant not letting the fear paralyze him. It meant doing his job, in the face of all the fear, following procedures and keeping his attention from wandering.

            He eased into the darkness of relative darkness, his ears straining for any sound while he paused to allow his eyes to adjust. He took another step in, the ambient sunshine making the area _darker_ than the outside, but by no means dark. Step by step, disappearing from the view of his support, just on the other side of the door. They were waiting for him to click his comm, to let them know he was positioned for the next officer. Then he heard a noise that froze him, something more frightening than click of a weapon or the tick of a bomb. He heard his name.

            "Stay where you are, Mr. Burgess."

            Brock froze, a trickle of sweat flowing down from his temple. His heart beat stronger and louder than it ever had in his life. He'd been called many things by the people he'd gone after, but all them had been generic, rude terms. Threatening, yes; but not personal – they'd never been personal. Hearing his own name sent a fear through him like he had never imagined. They knew him – knew his name, knew God only what else. He waited, not knowing what else to do, waiting for the situation to reveal itself a little more fully to him. Then a figure walked into view and he'd wished desperately that the situation had remained a mystery.

            The … thing! – he could only call it that – was made of shadow and fire. And wore an immaculate suit. Its eyes glowed coolly, but everything else seemed to absorb the light around it. It walked into his field of vision, every movement oozing 'casual', and regarded him almost absently. It lacked features of any kind – only those glowing eyes – and yet Brock knew for certain exactly what its emotions were. It was indifferent to him – indifferent to whether he lived or died.

            "Now then, Sergeant," the thing said to him, its voice chilling him like a grave, "speak to your radio, and ask for Mr. Trimble to come in." It waited, but Brock was too terrified to comply. They eyes flashed in irritation, and it flicked his hand at him.

            Brock found himself speaking without any conscious volition. His mouth was moving, his voice speaking, but he was not consciously doing it. "Bring Mr. Trimble to the barn," his voice said. "Everyone else, stand clear."

            A voice returned in his ear, clearly concerned. "Sergeant, that is not procedure. Stand clear, we are coming in."

            "Don't do that!" his voice snapped back. "I repeat, stand clear. I need Mr. Trimble, but everyone else should stand down."

            "All right, Sergeant," came Trimble's voice over the radio. His response effectively overruled any other orders that might be forthcoming. "I'm coming in."

            The door edged open, and Jonathan Trimble stepped into the barn. He took in the sight of Mr. Gray, and froze – half-in, half-out. For the first time in this case – for the first time in his _life_ – he considered the possibility that the magic obsession of the Weber Institute and the others in this case were not so far fetched. He considered the possibility that he was going to need magic in order to get out of this.

            "Come in, Mr. Trimble." The voice was chilling, but Jonathan didn't dare resist. He was running out of time. He stepped fully into the barn. "Mr. Burgess, you can leave now. I would tell the others to back away … quickly."

            To his credit, Burgess didn't immediately comply. He looked to the MI-5 agent, knowing that it was his job to protect him. He was terrified, but he wouldn't leave the agent unprotected, even if it meant endangering not only his life, but apparently his soul, as well.

            "Do as he says," Trimble ordered. "I'll be fine." It was a bold statement, one which he had no way of knowing whether or not it was true. His logic was two-fold, though. This creature wanted them to be alone, and he was unwilling to jeopardize his most promising chance at getting hold of the girl. He also knew that it was only a matter of moments until his deception would unravel, and he didn't want to be standing around with a heavily armed officer who could easily arrest him when that happened.

* * *

            "Let her go," ordered the officer as he set aside the wireless phone. "She's the real agent." The rest of the team lowered their weapons. "We're sorry – "

            "Shut up, idiot," Jenny Thatcher shouted back. "Let's go get that traitor." She stormed past him and climbed up into the passenger's seat of the personnel carrier. The others were quick to follow her lead, and within seconds they were tearing down the road towards the farmhouse.

* * *

            "What do we do?" Ripper queried as they watched Sergeant Burgess back out of the barn. "That must be where she is."

            "I'm working on it," MacKenzie replied.

* * *

            "Come forward, child," Mr. Gray said. Willow crept out from behind one of the walls, clearly nervous. Mr. Gray motioned her forward, and was pleased when she complied. Oddly enough, he actually _liked her. That had never happened before, and he found it … distressing. He shook his head slightly, clearing his thoughts._

            "Willow Rosenberg?" Jonathan inquired. She nodded. "My name is Jonathan Trimble, I work for Her Majesty's Secret Service." It was meant to be reassuring, but he wasn't sure if it really accomplished it.

            "Uh … hi," she managed to squeak out.

            Mr. Gray turned his attention back on Jonathan. "In a few moments, you will be given an opportunity to escape this trap. It will require my direct intervention, which is not something I am particularly pleased about. However, it cannot be helped." He paused here, inviting comment. Neither Jonathan nor Willow was foolish enough to do so. "Over by the dairy buildings there is a jeep containing two men, both of whom are familiar to Miss Rosenberg. When I tell you to, you will run to them."

            "We'll never make it," Trimble replied. "There's two dozen armed men out there." Mr. Gray shot him a look. _If looks could kill, Jonathan thought, then realized that in Mr. Gray's case they just might._

            "They will have other … distractions." The statement, coming from Mr. Gray was well beyond ominous. Willow gulped audibly.

            Jonathan opened his mouth to ask another question, but he was interrupted by a shout from outside. "Jonathan Trimble, you bloody traitor, come out now or I'm ordering them to shoot." Jenny Thatcher was in rare form.

            Mr. Gray looked at them. "Be prepared to run." He walked to the barn door and raised his hand. "And Miss Rosenberg, remember all we've talked about. Now … go!"

            Outside, Jenny Thatcher waited, her toe tapping on the ground. She was absolutely itching to blow Trimble into his next life. She checked her watch, noting the motion of the second hand. She wasn't going to give him a chance to come up with some daring plan of escape. She wasn't going to give him any time at all. She turned to the Captain on duty, preparing to give the order to fire.

            Then the front of the barn exploded.

            Two stories high, forty feet wide, and made of weathered hardwood. One moment it stood as a picture perfect sample of times gone by; the next, it was a hailstorm of splinters. None of the officers escaped. For the most part, body armor caught the projectiles, but enough of them caught bare skin or thin coverings to render a dozen cries of pain and splatters of blood.

            Jenny Thatcher and Mr. Turcey were both hit, the sharp wedges of wood catching them like knives. Turcey was caught in the arm by a wood splinter nearly nine inches long. It embedded deeply in the muscle tissue, spinning him around and slamming him into the side of the personnel carrier. Jenny caught a glancing blow across her ribs. It was enough to draw blood, and she screamed – more in frustration than pain.

            Jonathan grabbed Willow's hand and began pulling her towards the dairy barns. She was distracted by what was happening, eyes wide and in horror. Jonathan knew he couldn't allow himself to be distracted. This was their opportunity to get away, and he couldn't allow himself to miss it. He pulled her, and she ran, but her eyes were still focused on what was going on behind her.

            "Here they come!" shouted Giles, pointing at the two fleeing figures. He needn't have bothered. MacKenzie was accelerating the jeep towards them, hoping to swing around and pick them up before the officers recovered. He didn't think he had a chance, but he had to try.

            Mr. Gray walked forward, a blue ball of fire blazing in the palm of his hand. He waited for the officers to recover, to begin getting their bearings. He didn't want to waste a moment by acting too soon. He knew when the brains of the officers began to engage back, he could read thoughts so close to the surface. It was seconds – less than seconds – and they began to bring their weapons to bear. Mr. Gray dropped the ball of blue flame on the ground.

            It disappeared into the Earth, but emerged again less than a heartbeat later. It erupted in two dozen places, beneath each officer and each vehicle. It wasn't lethal – not directly, at least. It was, however, devastating.

            Jenny Thatcher, already injured and bleeding, felt the world beneath her erupt. She was spun into the air and slammed to the ground. The impact jarred her into near unconsciousness, stars swimming before her eyes. She couldn't breathe, the wind knocked out of her. Her ears rang so loudly she couldn't hear the shouts and cries of the men around her. 

            She turned, looking around her. Every vehicle was in flames, every man lying wounded and unconscious. And just beyond the smoke and haze she saw Jonathan Trimble leading a young woman at a dead run, heading towards an approaching jeep. They were getting away. _Damn him_, she shouted, but her voice was so hoarse that nothing more than a croak emerged. 

            Mr. Gray turned away and walked off, leaving behind the destruction. The threads of Arinoth and his servants were beginning to unravel. It was satisfactory. He reached out and took hold of a doorknob that only he could see, and pulled open a door in the fabric of reality. Floating in the air was an expanse of deep space, stars sparkling in odd juxtaposition to the fields. He stepped into it as casually as a normal human being might step into a room, and then closed the door, erasing himself from view.

            MacKenzie slid the jeep in front of Willow and Jonathan, yelling for them to get in. He wasn't sure who the man was, but he was helping Willow, so he took it as a good sign and let him enter. As soon as they were in, he took off, back the way they'd come.

            "Giles!" screeched Willow over the roaring of the engine. She reached around and grabbed him in a rough hug. "Oh my God, oh my God! You have no idea what happened."

            Ripper reached around and patted her hand. "It's good to see you, too." His eyes were fixed on the road ahead of them. MacKenzie was going hell bent, trying to get back to the main road and make an escape before the officers could regroup. "Do you think we can outrun them?" he asked.

            "I doubt it," MacKenzie replied, "but every time we say that today it works out, so there's no reason not to try."

            Jonathan hunched forward, nervous about the situation, but hoping to help. "There's a helicopter at the staging areas," he offered. "Do either of you know how to fly it?" He didn't hold out much hope – helicopter pilots were not common – but if there was a chance, it might help them get away.

            "That'll do," MacKenzie commented. 

            "So you know how to fly one?" Jonathan persisted.

            "I didn't say that," MacKenzie replied, and then left it at that. He continued to focus on the road ahead. He could fly a helicopter, depending on how loosely one defined the word 'fly.' He spent a year stuck on the small island of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. The island was only three miles long and a fraction of that wide, the whole thing being a big British Naval base. The problem was, with the exception of the eleven or twelve bars present, there wasn't actually anything to _do. Mac was well liked and had made friends easily, and so he had taken every opportunity for 'unofficial' flying lessons while he was there. While he couldn't be called 'accomplished' by any stretch of the imagination, he felt he had enough command of the basics to get them away. _

            The jeep pulled back onto the road, mud flying in all directions behind it. It was less than a hundred yards to the chopper, and MacKenzie drove straight at it without any indication that he had any inclination to stop. The pilot leapt from the away, attempting to get away from the inevitable collision. 

            At the very last moment, MacKenzie turned the jeep and slammed on the brakes. He very nearly tipped it over sideways, but it came to rest exactly as he'd planned. They all jumped out and headed from the copter. The erstwhile pilot turned back, realizing that not only had he been fooled, but that they were taking his helicopter. He was unarmed, outnumbered, and one of them was an MI-5 agent. He had no choice but to let them go.

            They all clambered into the chopper, Mac taking the pilot's seat. By unspoken consent, there was no question of Jonathan joining them. He climbed into the front seat next to Mac, Willow and Giles climbing into the back. It took just a moment for Mac to orient himself to the controls, and then they were airborne.

            The helicopter rocked back and forth, slewing to the side as MacKenzie tried to get back into the groove of flying. It had, after all, been a long time. "If anyone has any ideas about how to help us avoid detection, they would be welcome. I don't think I'm going to be able to out-fly a real pilot." He tried to keep his voice light, but the strain on his face was clear.

            A moment later, the world seemed to drain of color and turn shades of gray and silver. "What?!" Mac cried out, the surprise nearly breaking his concentration. 

            "Sorry!" said Willow over the radio. "I … um, turned us invisible. It just has some side effects." Jonathan looked back at her, not quite understanding. "I'm sorta bending a bunch of the light waves in certain spectrums around us. It won't make us completely invisible, but it should make it pretty darn hard to see us. It just means that only certain colors of light will make it through to us."

            Mac nodded. "Good idea," he said, "just let me know before you do something like that again, okay?"

            "Okay." Willow nodded vigorously. She was with Giles again, and she had done a spell that hadn't gotten out of control. She was feeling pretty good about herself, considering that she was running for her life.

  



	14. Chapter 15 The Old Network

**  
** Chapter 14 

The Old Network

_Thursday, __6:05 PM___

            They abandoned the helicopter in a field about a hundred kilometers from the farmhouse. The flight had been tense, each of them privately wondering what would happen when they crashed. It seemed that crashing was inevitable, but by some miracle Mac had kept the helicopter aloft and going generally in the right direction. At least they assumed it was the right direction, since only he seemed to know where it was that he was heading.

            The only piece of interesting conversation had been when Jonathan Trimble had actually introduced himself. It had been awkward and stilted, but he had felt that it was important to do so while they couldn't immediately leave him behind. "I should probably introduce myself," he'd said. "My name is Jonathan Trimble. I work for Her Majesty's Secret Service." There'd been a palpable silence. "I know who you are, of course. More importantly, I know what's going on."

            "Do you, now?" MacKenzie's reply had been cuttingly dry.

            "You're working for Sir Radcliffe Holm, trying to stop the Weber Institute from gaining control of the Slayer. When you brought her here to England, they took it as an opportunity to grab her, but you had her hidden away with Gretta Stevenson."

            "He thinks I'm _Buffy_," Willow had bubbled, her ability to find something fun in even the most dire circumstance belying any logical explanation. "That is so cool. I can't wait till she finds out."

            MacKenzie had smiled. "Well, with one small exception, he actually does know what's going on." 

            "I want to help," Jonathan had continued. "I don't think you can do this without me. The rest of MI-5 is after you. I can help."

            "We'll see." MacKenzie had turned his attention back to flying. Twenty minutes later, he landed in the clearing, and they were off on foot.

            They headed across the field, away from the helicopter and into a stand of trees. It was small stand of oak, and the four passed through it in a moment. Beyond it was roadway, and directly across from them a driveway. A small house was set back just beyond the line of sight, and Mac led them unerringly towards it. It was a short walk, but everyone felt their own tension build. Mac was confident, but the others had no idea where they were going … or why.

            Just down the gravel roadway was a small rose garden, and they saw the old man working in it. He was large, once muscular, but age had turned the muscles to something in between muscle and fat, or a mixture of it. He still wore his hair in a military style buzz cut, although it was white where once it had been dark brown. He wore a short-sleeved shirt in the summer sun, the tattoos on his forearms faded but still visible. Even a blind man could see that he had once been a military officer.

            He looked up as they approached, his heavy face turning into a broad smile. "MacKenzie, m'boy!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms out wide. In one had he held a small pair of clippers, but they dangled harmlessly away. He was glad to see them. "You've brought me visitors. Come, come." He waved them towards the house. "I'll put some tea on."

            They wandered up to the house, the old man chattering about the roses. "The summer's a hot one, I've got to keep the water on them. And you've got to watch for the aphids. Nasty little bastards, I'll tell you." He went on, drawing them into the kitchen, where he set a kettle and began pulling out cups and tea. He quickly pressed Willow into service, which she was happy for, because it gave her something to do. "You remind me of my own daughter," he said. "Of course, it's been thirty years since she was your age." He laughed at that, a full, hearty laugh. His face creased with the humor.

            He set the tea out around the table, and sat down. His next statement took them all by surprise. "So," he said, turning to MacKenzie, "are you still a terrorist?" He smiled broadly, but no one else did.

            "Tom," Mac replied, "we need to steal your truck."

            The old man laughed. "That's not going to get you into London. No." He shook his head. "They're going to be looking for you." He sipped his tea for a moment, thinking. "I can check with Brother Mansfield, his son works for Special Section. Just give me a moment."

            He got up and went to the telephone. He dialed and waited, then spoke. "Robert! It's Tom. Have you heard from your boy? Anything about Brother MacKenzie? Ahh, good to know. Aye, he's here. Aye, I can keep him. Fine, fine. Call me then." He hung up the receiver and turned back to the group at the table. "I'm to keep you here for now. Mansfield will call when we have an opportunity to get you into London."        They all just sat and looked at the old man.

            "I suppose an explanation is in order," said MacKenzie.

* * *

            Ethan Rayne drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He had only a moment to savor it, and then his head was thrust back under water. He struggled against the iron grip that held him there, his head locked in place. He held the breath until his lungs burned, hoping beyond hope that he would be given another chance at a breath. Stars danced in front of his eyes, and he felt that his lungs would pop. Just then, as he was about to pass out, he was hauled back out of the tank. He tried another breath, but that was forced out of his body as he was lifted high in the air.

            The creature that held him was huge – it stood nearly twelve feet tall. It was twice as broad as a professional wrestler, all ebony muscle. Its hands wrapped around Ethan's head like a small apple, its talons digging into his scalp. It lifted him by the head and held him high above the cold, stone floor of the chamber, deep beneath the Earth.

            The creature's bat wings flexed from its shoulders, spreading out and flexing. Its angled, chiseled face split in a death's head grin. Fangs shone vividly, three inch long teeth as sharp as razors. Deep red orbs gazed at Ethan, the jaws snapping absently. The creature gave Ethan a small shake, like an angry child with a rag doll.

            Some part of Ethan's mind took note of the demon that held him. It wore only two things: a small set of cutoff pants – or trews as they were known – apparently made from human skin, and a glowing iron collar. It was the collar, of course, that drew Ethan's attention. It was completely incongruous with everything else he was seeing. The demon would surely be more than willing to simply snap him in half and eat him, but its will was not its own. It was a slave, doing a slave's bidding. _But who is its master, he wondered, and then found himself plunged beneath the water once again._

* * *

            "It's called 'the old network'." They were all sitting around in Tom's den, cozily finished in a style that had been popular in the forties. They had decided that they needed to get everyone onto the same page about what was going on, to get all of the information out and shared. That meant no holding back. It was a life and death situation, and they needed to know who they could rely on, what resources they had, and what they could count on. MacKenzie was explaining how he and Sir Radcliffe had worked, and how it was that they were getting help now.

            "It's called that because most of us are old, y'see?" Tom laughed at his own joke, his face crinkling a bit.

            "It's more true than you might think. The network is built in concentric rings, layers really. Not like cells, so much, but built through personal relationships. The first layer are people that worked with Sir Radcliffe in the resistance during World War II. Men like Tom here, old soldiers most of them." Tom shrugged a bit, depreciating his role in the whole affair. He would never claim to be a hero, despite the fact that he was exactly that. He didn't need that kind of validation, he only wished to serve his country.

            "The network extends through the Lodges, mostly," Tom supplied. "Old friends, their children, their children's friends. In some cases even their grandchildren."

            "Are you saying that the Freemasons are some kind of organized resistance?" Giles rubbed his forehead, unwilling to grant that the rumors of the Freemasons as a shadow government might be true.

            "Hardly," snorted MacKenzie, his face bursting into a smile. "You might call them a _dis_-organized resistance, but the only thing they really resist is being organized!"

            "True enough," remarked Tom. "Ninety-nine percent – more even that that, I should think – are simply what they appear to be. They are good men looking to be friends with other men, to do a spot of charity work, and to carry on some good moral traditions. It's a loose affiliation, bound more by habit than anything else. But the vows of a Freemason are solemn, and we take them very seriously. A mason will keep the secrets of a brother – with some obvious exceptions – and will go to some lengths to help one. Now then, take among these men those who are both old soldiers and old friends, see? A man would do much for a friend, especially one he's been to war with. A mason will do much for a brother mason. Now take men who are bound by all these ties – friends, soldiers, and masons all – and you have something very powerful, and very personal." He smiled, seeing that they understood. "Not organized, no. Not that, but effective, none-the-less."

            "And you've been using this loose network of personal relationships to conduct a covert operation in absolute secrecy for nearly two years, right here on British soil, without the Secret Service having a clue." Jonathan Trimble shook his head. "Incredible," he muttered. "God help us if you ever did get organized."

            MacKenzie nodded. "We're losing the network, obviously. There's only a few veterans of Sir Radcliffe's resistance left alive. The network only works because of the personal recommendations of one member to another. I couldn't access the outer layers of the network if I wanted to, and even if I did, they would do nothing for me. Once these men are gone, everything that ties it together is gone with it."

            "But that's not yet, Mac m'boy." Tom nodded sagely. "We've still got a fight or two left in us, and we'll see that you get to this one." He looked over at Jonathan, assessing the man, deciding whether or not he could be trusted with had to be said. He decided he could. "Most of the men, you know, were military men. Most of them have military families, too. Their sons and grandsons, and even a daughter here or there, still serve today, in active duty. They can be counted on, when it's necessary, to do something not strictly within their orders. They know who they can trust, and they'll do what they need to do when it's asked of them. You understand?" He waited while Jonathan digested the subtle message he was being given.

            "You mean the encryption key from the foreign office." It was beginning to make sense to him. "The 'old network' of yours, through some on-duty military personnel, lifted that and got it into our hands. Is that it?" Tom nodded, waiting to see whether or not Jonathan would take any action. For his part, Jonathan thought it over. "It seems to me they did the country a great service," he said finally, "but I regret it can never become known." It was a reassurance that the secret was safe. "I don't understand why it was necessary, though. If the foreign secretary is on our side, why didn't he just cooperate?"

            "The Foreign Secretary isn't part of the network," MacKenzie supplied. "He got the contact into Arinoth's organization through one of Turcey's assistants back when they were looking for a General to peddle the Slayer to. He's kept that contact very secret, playing at his own game, to some respects. He knew that Arinoth had to be stopped because he knew that they were the ones to attempt to kill Sir Radcliffe. He's cooperated, for what it's been worth, but in the end he doesn't trust us and we don't trust him."

            "Interesting." Jonathan rubbed his hands together, trying to work out the rest of the impacts. "But now what? We know that they want the girl, and they also know that we have her. They'll be coming after us, but it seems that no matter what, they can bury us. How can we hope to stop them? Even if we prevent them from getting the girl, it will still look like you two are terrorists, and I've got a count of treason hanging over my head."

            "We need to make them tip their hand," MacKenzie replied. "We need to draw them out, make them think that they can get their hands on the girl and get rid of us without too much official inquiry. Now that you're involved and working against them, they're going to think twice about involving MI-5 in the arrest. They want to do this with no witnesses, so we need to give them that opportunity." MacKenzie knew that with the right bait, Arinoth and his private army would come after them. They only needed to give them that chance.

            Jonathan looked up, a figurative light-bulb bursting visually above his head. "I've got it. There's a secure communications channel that the Foreign Secretary was using to pass messages back and forth with his contact in the Weber Institute. We managed to crack it, and I have to believe that if my operation is compromised then Jenny and Turcey will have cracked it as well." He waved one finger, mentally checking the contingencies of the plan he was proposing. "Let's assume, though, that they don't know that you know that the link is compromised. Any message you send through it they will pick up, and they'll have every reason to believe that it is genuine."

            Everyone seemed to nod at that idea, the format of the message already coming to mind. They would set up a meeting time, and Turcey would lead Arinoth to it. "The problem is that it requires that we embed the message inside another electronic object, and I think my man for that has been captured."

            "You mean stegonographic encryption?" Willow piped up.

            "Yes," Jonathan replied cautiously. "You know of it?"

            "Well, who doesn't?" replied Willow, having no clue how absurd the statement sounded to all the others. "What's the encoding sequence?"

            "Least significant bit on the red hue, every seven hundredth pixel. Posted to an Internet newsgroup." Jonathan waited to gauge her reaction to it.

            "Is that it?" she asked, quirking her head to the side. "You're not, like, pre-encrypting it with a public key, or coding it in EBCDIC, or running it through some kind of electronic scytale?" She stopped abruptly, seeing the appalled look on his face. "What?" she asked meekly.

            Jonathan said nothing, but Mac stepped in. "I take it that means you can do it, then?"

            "If you've got a computer and an Internet connection. It might take a bit because I'll need to download a couple of tools, but I should be able to get something posted in about two hours." Willow shrugged. She'd left her laptop back at the farmhouse – she really could've used it right then.

            "Time we have, at least some of it. How about a computer?" Jonathan was clearly impressed, but trying to not get his hopes up too much.

            "That shouldn't be a problem," Tom spoke up. "My nephew lives just down the way and works at one of those IT jobs. I'll have him bring his laptop down as soon as he gets home." 

            "We'll work on the content of the message," Jonathan offered. With that, the impromptu meeting seemed to break up. 

            Ripper drew Willow away and into the kitchen, wanting to talk more about her experience with Mr. Gray. "Tell me," he asked, pouring them both another cup of tea. "Did Mr. Gray say anything to you? I thought for sure he was evil, and yet he appears to be helping us. I really don't understand."

            Willow nodded. In fact, she'd had a lengthy conversation with the being. "He tried to explain some things to me, but I'm not sure I understood it. He said that he was trying to prevent snags in the fabric of destiny. He kept gazing off at nothing, it seemed, like he was looking at something only he could see." She sipped the tea, thinking for a moment. "He said that he was truly the gray man, and that his job was to maintain that."

            Ripper contemplated the thought, understanding dawning on him. "Of course," he said, "the gray man." The pieces began to fall in place for him, memories of legends and half-forgotten passages from old books. Eastern philosophy and Greek myth, combining in some semblance of a story. "Neither black nor white, the keeper of balance. It seems that perhaps he wasn't acting against Angel, but truly trying to make sure that they accomplished what they needed to. He couldn't allow a Slayer army to fall into the hands of one being, good _or_ evil. That would upset the balance too much, and so he intervened. Fascinating." Ripper sipped his tea. "Seems a bit brutal, for all that."

            "He said that most people's lives are threads that are two small for his consideration. Only those with a stake in the future of the world merit his concern." Willow shrugged.

            "Sounds awfully self-centered of him," Ripper replied. "Anything else?"

            "He said that what Arinoth failed to do, I would accomplish." She shrugged. "I don't get it."

            "Neither do I," Ripper replied. It would be another year before he would understand, not until Sunnydale got destroyed. It would be when Willow would release the Slayer spirit, making every potential Slayer a real Slayer. She would create the Slayer army, but not one under the control of a single person. Each one would be an independent person, capable of choosing good or evil, bravery or cowardice. It would be then that Ripper would understand this odd pronouncement, but not until then.

            Willow contemplated the other message that Mr. Gray had given her. If Giles didn't understand this one, there was no point in bringing up the other. But she knew that this was a time of testing for her, to see if he could trust her. So she told him anyway.

            Ripper shrugged. "I'll have to think about that one."

            For now they simply sipped tea.

  



	15. Chapter 15 Traps

**  
** Chapter 15 

Thursday, 6:20 PM

            Ethan Rayne was dropped onto the cold, stone floor, where he promptly vomited up a half gallon of water. He coughed violently, water spraying out his nose and creeping its way painfully out of his lungs. He tried to take a breath, but was incapacitated by wracking coughs yet again. He blinked, his eyes trying to focus as he lay his cheek on the cool stone. 

            The puddle he lay in was swirling with blood. A dozen or more deep wounds criss-crossed his skull where the demon had held him with its massive talons. He'd been roughly handled, plunged in and out of the water repeatedly, until he had lost all sense of time and orientation. His eyes refused to see, though, beyond the black stone floor. The room seemed to be moving of its own accord, objects swimming in and out of his field of vision.

            More pain gripped his body as he began to shiver, partially from cold and partially from fear. He had been given moments of respite before, but they had lasted mere seconds. Any heartbeat now, the mindless, purposeless torture would begin again. He tried to brace himself for it, but the fear and cold continued to drive his shivering, and he found that he didn't have the strength to brace any more.

            He vomited again, stomach acid eating into his sinuses. The shivering continued, the stone turning colder as he lay on it, sucking every last bit of heat from his body. His jaw began to ache from clenching his teeth – a pointless effort to keep them from chattering. 

            He waited, behind him the massive demon growled a low, bass tremor that emanated from deep within its chest. Ethan wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew that the creature was enjoying this. It was enjoying its new plaything, like an evil child slowly breaking down a new doll. Ethan was the rag doll, and he really didn't like it.

            He turned his head and attempted once more to focus his eyes. The room was moving less, and he seemed able to take a breath or two without sending himself back into wracking coughs. He blinked, once, twice, trying to get the blood out of his eyes. At last, he could see. 

            He saw shoes. 

            It took a moment for his mind to wrap around this sight, but it was, indeed, shoes. More than that, there appeared to be legs attached to those shoes – human legs. He didn't see the clawed feet of the demon, although he could hear them gentle clicking on the floor behind him. He saw, as he finally moved his vision up, a small, bald man.

            The man smiled, the skin stretch across his head like it was two sizes too small, so much so that the smile seemed to bring it almost to the breaking point. It was a not a nice smile. Ethan would have almost have preferred seeing the demon's fangs. 

            "How are we feeling?" the old man asked. The question didn't seem to invite a response, only a pained nod. "Good." The old man walked around Ethan, not fast, but too quick for Ethan to follow in his currently injured state. "I'm very sorry for your mistreatment," the man continued, clearly not sorry at all. "I was unavoidably detained, and my pet had no one to tell him when to stop. Pity." He walked back into Ethan's view, stooped over, and smiled at him again.

            Ethan shivered once more from that smile, and from the eyes. The eyes were deep, ancient, and swirled in a fire of carefully controlled madness. The man hadn't been detained, he had let the creature torture Ethan. It wasn't purposeless, for it had broken him. As Ethan looked into those eyes, he knew he didn't have the strength to resist the will behind them. He was finished before he'd even begun – the dunking had seen to that. He coughed again, his body curling into a fetal position, his eyes going out of focus once again.

            "Poor, poor, boy," the old man spoke, the words belied by the arctic lack of sympathy in the tone. "All this, and I had one small, simple question for you. Would you like to know what it is? Would you like to answer it?" He waited, and Ethan nodded – anything to make this torture end. "Well, first I must congratulate you. It was a wonderful spell – simple, really, but delightfully executed. It allowed Mr. Giles and Mr. MacKenzie to slip past my first noose."

            The old man stood and paced away, leaving Ethan to try to follow him once again. "I'm afraid that I'm quite … put out." The threat was apparent. Ethan had aided Ripper and that Scotsman, and that had angered the old man. If he didn't cooperate, Ethan was likely to find himself slowly dismembered. "The spell was unique, you know – it had a peculiar … _flavor_." The old man licked his lips, tasting the magic. "It was easy to find you because of that."

            Find him they had, a small commando team. They had drugged him, trussed him up, and dragged out of his apartment before he knew what was even going up. He had woken up here, being dunked in and out by the huge demon. "You watched them, didn't you?" the old man asked. "There was a scrying dish in your apartment. You watched then, yes?" This question seemed to engender a response, so Ethan nodded.

            The old man promptly changed topics. "My pet here is really quite unhappy," he said, gesturing to the demon. "He is not here of his own free will. I have taken that away from him. You can see the despair in his eyes, how he fears me." Well, that explained the collar, at least. Ethan looked over, seeing the demon well for the first time. He thought that the light in the demon's eyes was not fear, but hatred. God help them all if the thing ever got free of its bindings. The old man was continuing: "I do, occasionally, let him get his frustrations out, though. I give him people who displease me – people who don't chose to cooperate … fully."  Ah, there was the threat. There was no question as to what would happen if he didn't cooperate. 

            "Now tell me, Mr. Rayne," the old man said, steel backing his voice. He leaned down, gazing once more into Ethan's eyes. "Where did they go?"

* * *

            "I think we have the message set up," said Jonathan. He gave a piece of paper over to Willow, who read it: 'Have the package. Ditched Trimble. Meet for exchange. Wembly, tunnel 23, midnight.' He nodded to her. "How long to encode it?"

            Willow smiled. "About twenty minutes." She thought for a moment, and then looked back at him. "Do you have a picture you want to use?" 

            Jonathan looked about uncomfortably, looking to MacKenzie and then to Ripper and then back again. "It's to be posted to a newsgroup," he began, turning slightly red. It was one thing to discuss this with his staff, another to discuss it with a young lady. "It should be a photo that blends into the group, only … it's a pornographic group. Mainly photos of nude women … with other women." He cleared his throat.

            Willow looked up quizzically. "Which one?" she asked. Jonathan handed her a paper with the newsgroup name written on it. "Oh, well I know a couple of web sites where we can snag a picture that will blend in." She tapped rapidly on the keyboard, pulling up an adult web site. She clicked the 'members' link, logged in, and began browsing the photos there. "Tara and I used to browse this for … inspiration."

            She was proud of herself – she'd managed to say something about Tara without breaking down into tears. She didn't notice the four deeply embarrassed men standing around her. "This shouldn't take very long at all. When do we leave?"

            "As soon as you're done," Mac replied, tilting his head in one direction in order to grasp what was happening in the picture she had selected.

* * *

            The wards on the house were formidable, or would have been to anyone lesser. But Arinoth simply waved them away. It was getting dark, and it had taken some time to get here. But it would be worth it – he could already sense that Sir Radcliffe was inside. He walked past the threshold, his 'pet' following behind, as his assault team spread out to prevent anything _untoward_ from happening.

            He paused in the entry, gazing about. It was as he remembered it, once long ago. Before the war – the first war. Sir Radcliffe had lived here with his wife, a frail, _mortal_ woman. So foolish, so very sentimental. He had kept the place, even though Arinoth knew exactly where it was.

            Not so foolish, perhaps. After all, Arinoth hadn't thought to look here. So perhaps it had been clever once; but no more. Now, it was simply his tomb to be. He had escaped the more subtle magic that had been employed. This time, however, Arinoth was going to attend to his death personally, face to face. There would be no escape.

            Arinoth walked forward, his pet demon trailing behind. He knew where to find his nemesis, and walked straight to the study. The doors were unlocked, not surprisingly. He pushed them open. Sir Radcliffe sat in the big stuffed chair by the fireplace, he showed no signs of either surprise or worry. He had anticipated the visit.

            "Took you long enough," Sir Radcliffe said, not without a trace of bitterness. "I really thought you were brighter than that." He sipped his tea, looking churlish.

            Arinoth walked forward, slowly, deliberately. "It's over," he hissed. 

            "Don't be an idiot," Sir Radcliffe shot back. "It's been over for months. Our time is past, we just haven't gotten around to lying down yet." He shook his head sadly. "You just can't stand it, can you? The world doesn't need you; it doesn't need us. But you don't _get it_." He laughed, a small laugh. It was the first time he had used that particular colloquialism. He was actually quite proud of himself.

            "MacKenzie has you outmaneuvered, always has. The man's a natural. It's pawn to queen four, you know. The game is over right then, even though you'll play another twenty or thirty moves." He smiled. "You were never in this one, Arinoth. You've been out of it from the beginning – you just don't know it."

            Rage boiled in Arinoth's breast. How dare he speak that way to him! Deep down, though, a small voice spoke in his mind. The old thorn in his side was right – he had been outmaneuvered repeatedly during this encounter. Could it be over? Could he truly have no chance of achieving his dream?

            "My vengeance is as eternal as I am!" Arinoth shouted back.

            "You mean your ambition? That's all it is, just plain, _ordinary, ambition." Sir Radcliffe said, smiling at his one-time friend. It was a knowing smile, a sad, almost wistful smile. It was the smile he died with._

* * *

            Jenny Thatcher walked through the room, holding the translated note in her hand. She had them! Turcey, his arm in a sling, stopped her. He knew something was up. If it was what he was hoping for, he couldn't let her activate the rest of her strike team. They had tried that the last time, and Trimble had escaped. Jonathan knew MI-5 inside and out; there was no way they could catch him using a government team. No, Tuecey knew that this needed to be handled _inside_ his organization. He would have to talk fast, but he was pretty sure he knew what buttons to push.

            "Do you have them?" he asked, his voice hushed.

            Jenny looked up at his eyes, debating what to say. She wanted this, and so far Turcey hadn't provided any help in the matter. He'd only been pain in the arse. But he had been with her when they were both wounded, unlike Trimble or Crombey. That counted for something. She nodded. "Wembley. Midnight." She showed him the transmission.

            He looked it over, contemplating his good fortune. "Any chance this is a set-up?" he asked. It was almost too convenient.

            She shook her head. "No. That's a secure drop that the Foreign Secretary has been using. The only one who knows that we've cracked it is Trimble, and they've managed to shake him. That message is genuine."

            Turcey nodded his head. This was the opportunity he was looking for. Now he just needed to make the best of it. "All right," he said. "But we can't do this with your forces." She started to protest, but he held up his hand. "Trimble may not be the only traitor. You said yourself that you think Crombey is involved. Well, if we go off with all the forces you can bring to bear, he'll be undoing your effort before you can succeed." He raised an eyebrow at her, daring her to disagree. She didn't.

            He looked around, then drew her even further into the corner. "I can get a team on the ground, with no one the wiser. They don't report to anyone you know, so they can't be betrayed. Just keep this message quiet, and this will all be over at midnight."

            Jenny bit her lower lip, thinking it over. She wanted to succeed, she had to. There didn't seem to be any better options. "I have to be there," she said, laying down the line of her requirements. "I can't leave it all up to you. There has to be some official oversight, but I'm willing to limit that to me."

            Turcey nodded. It wasn't ideal, but it was manageable. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he lied. "Now, go bury this. I'll get the team together."

* * *

            The truck pulled up in front of Wembley stadium under the spread of night. It had made its way easily through the checkpoints. True to his word, Brother Mansfield had come to their aid. He had driven them in his own truck, hidden beneath a tarp in the back. He had taken it to his son's checkpoint, who had made a show of inspecting it, but with the assurances of his Father that they were doing the right thing, let him pass through.

            The four slipped out the back of the truck on cats' paws, keeping to a shadow as much as possible. Waiting for them, just as they had requested, was someone to open the gate – Brother Thompson, head of the maintenance crew and good friend to the Mansfield boy. They slipped in, mere phantoms, as the gate was locked back up. Their aides drifted away like ghosts, seconds later mere memories. They were inside and ready to set up the trap.

            MacKenzie led them through the corridors of the stadium, their steps echoing eerily. On Sunday, the place would be filled to capacity with roaring soccer fans. For now, though, all was quiet. Mac led them down a flight of stairs and through a door marked 'staff only'. It had been locked, but yielded quickly to his manipulations. They were in the physical plant now. 

            They progressed, trusting in his lead, through two more corridors, and then to a metal cabinet. Warning signs labeled it as an electrical closet. MacKenzie opened it, and then began removing screws from one of the panels with his pocket knife. "I worked on a construction crew here," he said, beginning to work on the second screw. "I had an opportunity to leave a few things behind for just such a contingency." He took out the third screw, and then started on the forth. "You really should do more background checks on the people doing that kind of work," he said, catching Jonathan's eye with a mischevious smile. 

            The panel came off, and behind it lay a mass of wires. Mac pushed them aside, revealing another breaker switch, incongruously set deep _within the assembly. "Step back," he said, and everyone moved away from the area around the cabinet. He flipped the switch, and a circular ring in the concrete ceiling blew out with a loud crack. Immediately following, the inner round section of concrete fell to the floor. _

            Lying in its center was a large black duffle bag. Mac waggled his eyebrows, clearly pleased with himself. "I didn't have an opportunity to test it," he said, grabbing the bag and pulling back the zipper. "I'm glad it worked the way I thought it would." He began laying out equipment from the bag. Body armor, communications equipment, weapons, explosives. 

            Jonathan whistled. "You've had this hiding in the ceiling for how long?" 

            "Long enough," Mac replied. He clearly wasn't telling. "And no," he continued, looking up at the agent, "I won't tell you where the others are." Instead, he tossed Jonathan a pistol and several clips. "They'll be coming with an assault team, intent on taking the girl alive. Willow, you're not in any immediate danger, but I can't say the same for you, Ripper."

            "I'll stay with her," he replied. 

            "Good enough," Mac nodded. He slipped into the body armor, loaded the rifle, and strapped on several other weapons. "I'll go round clockwise from here, clearing the assault team as quietly as possible. Jonathan, try to keep these two alive."

            "Got it," he said. "I'll need to keep out of sight, they think I'm not part of this. Don't worry, though; I'll be watching over you even if you can't see me."

            "Good enough, then. Let's get into position." Mac looked at each one of them. He didn't need to say 'good luck' – they all knew that their lives were on the line. 

            Arinoth was coming.

  



	16. Chapter 16 To Deal With the Devil

**  
** Chapter 16 

To Deal With the Devil

_Thursday, __11:33 PM___

            The assault team spread out through the stadium like ghosts, or the shadows of ghosts. They were all seasoned professionals, mercenaries trained on the world's battlefields. This was work they relished – in some cases, it was the only work they knew. They had defined their lives by it even before they had met Arinoth.

            Now, the fever of true belief burned in them as well.

            Zealots are dangerous, even under the best circumstances. A harmless man once captured by the fever of some ideal, some cause, became highly unstable. They were capable of anything – from great courage to great cruelty. A normal man in the grip of fever was a tool for destruction, just like the hoe or the scythe in hands of angry peasants, rising up against their oppressors.

            But a sword was deadlier still. Take a well-trained man, a dangerous man already, and put him into the fire of fanaticism, and he became a wicked thing indeed – a razor edge on a broadsword, cutting swaths through his enemies. Then place that living weapon in the hand of a master swordsman, and you had something truly terrible to behold. Arinoth was just such a swordsman, and he wielded these men with brutal efficiency. They descended upon Wembley and disappeared into its shadows.

            Turcey and Thatcher waited, out beyond the gates. They would know when the soldiers had their quarry in sight. They would know when the area was secure. They waited silently, not speaking. Jenny hugged herself deeper into her own doubts. The anger was still there, burning brightly inside her, but she wondered if perhaps she had gone too far this time.

            She was completely outside official channels, and that made her nervous. In her fight to catch Jonathan Trimble, she had become just like him. She consoled herself by pointing out that Turcey and his team were hear by order of the Queen to assist them, and that she was taking their assistance as it was offered. It was right for her to accept it. She only needed to remember that. 

            Deep inside, though, something nagged. What was a private outfit doing with a highly trained assault team? Even with the Queen's blessing, what kind of group associated with mercenaries, here on their own soil? This wasn't the only team, either. She reminded herself of that. There had been the team at Rupert Giles' flat. They had been mercs as well, at least one of them well-known to MI-6 for his involvement in foreign wars. It wasn't just one team, something to be called a 'security detail' by clever corporate executives.

            And the men themselves, she had seen them. There was something about them, about their eyes. They burned with a passion that was well-beyond the simple greed of ordinary soldiers of fortune. They burned with something otherwordly. Other than that burning, though, they gave every appearance to being … soulless.

            It was an odd word, but it was the only one that would come to her. It seemed like they had nothing inside themselves but that dangerous fire in their eyes. What had they become? How had they reached that point? She didn't know, she didn't care. She just tried to keep herself from shaking when she thought about the looks in their eyes.

            They were … evil.

            She was associating with creatures of darkness, of that she was now sure. But she was in the _right_. Didn't that make a difference? Turcey had assured her that it did. He had seen the look in her face when she'd seen the soldiers, and had made an effort to reassure her that they were doing the right thing. But here, waiting, she wondered. 

            If these men were evil, then how could she be doing the right thing? What if that's what Jonathan had realized? What if he were doing this because _he was right? She couldn't think about that, her anger wouldn't let her. No, she was going to see this through. She was going to prove that he was a traitor, that he had humiliated her and nearly killed her. She was going to show that he was no more than a terrorist himself. And if she had to align herself with evil to accomplish that, then so be it._

* * *

            Inside, they swept out, moving up and around and through. They needed to close off tunnel 23, not just from the obvious entrances and exits. It needed to be covered from above and below, with shooter who had a clear field of fire. They needed to make sure that nothing got in or out unless they chose to allow it.

            Clear across the stadium, directly opposite at tunnel 22, the first of the men moved into position. He lay down in the shadows, bringing up his rifle with the starlight scope. He scanned the area, the seats around the tunnel, the walkways, and the camera well just below and to the left. The only movement was there in the tunnel – two targets, a man and a woman.

            He dialed up the magnification on his scope. Yes, those were the targets: Rupert Giles and Willow Rosenberg. He didn't see the third, but he was sure that man wasn't in his scope of view. He reached up to the mic pickups on his neck, activating the 'whisper' microphone. It was attached to either side of the larynx, allowing even the smallest whisper to be picked up by the radios. 

            "Targets in site. Area around the tunnel is empty. I have a clear shot." He waited for confirmation, which came a moment later. He adjusted his position, making himself more comfortable, keeping his eye to the scope. From the seats directly above him, Mac leaned out over the rail. A single pop sounded, the silenced shot producing no sound that could be heard beyond the immediate vicinity. 

            It hit the man in the back of the head, spattering blood and brains all over the rifle and scope. It did not, however, reposition the body significantly. To the others, looking out to tunnel 22, the shooter was still in place and ready. Only the most careful examination would reveal any differences.

            Mac moved on.

* * *

            The control room came to life as one of Arinoth's assault team began bringing up the stadium's systems. That included security cameras, lights, elevators, and emergency systems. He would be able to monitor the entire setup, to look and see if anyone was where they weren't supposed to be. The control screens flickered to life. 

            He began running the initialization sequences, his face bathed in the glow of the bright color startup logos. It was the only light in the darkened booth, and he didn't consider how it would look from the even darker outside. But the contrast, however slight, was sufficient for someone who was looking for it. For MacKenzie, armed with a rifle and scope, the man may as well have been standing in a spotlight.

            The sound of the punctured glass echoed dismally in the small control room, but down in the tunnels of the stadium, nobody heard. The body lay on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out from beneath it, a surprised look on its face.

* * *

            Turcey checked in with the assault team leader, wondering what was going on. "Talk to me," he ordered.

            "We've got secure positions," a hollow voice responded back. "Everyone's checked in, although we're having trouble getting the booth systems to come up. We've got Giles and the girl, but there's no sign of MacKenzie."

            Turcey considered. He didn't like not knowing where MacKenzie was. Anything could be happening. He considered the situation in the control booth – MacKenzie could be there. "Check in with everyone again," he said cautiously. "Get positive confirmation."

            "Roger that." The team leader was silent for a moment, during which he had switched to another frequency in order to check in with each of the other team members. Turcey waited, growing impatient, but the radio squawked to life again. "All clear."  It may have been the distortion of the radio, or possibly Turcey's irritation, or a combination of any of a number of factors, but neither he nor Jenny Thatcher noticed that the last phrase had been uttered by a different voice.

            Inside, Mac pulled the body of the assault team leader out of sight. Eight had come in, and now eight were dead. He was beginning to think that they might just have a chance to succeed at this.

* * *

            Turcey picked up his phone and punched a speed dial number. "We're clear to move in." The only response on the other end was the click of the disconnect. He didn't need to have a conversation about what was going on. There would be no positive confirmation to move forward, only a negative if plans had changed. Turcey knew what was supposed to happen next, he didn't need instructions. He started the car and pulled it around the corner and up to one of the gates. "Come one," he said absently to Jenny, climbing out.

            He walked over to the padlock and whispered a word to it. It fell open as easily as if he had used the key. He pushed the chain link door aside, then returned for the other one. As he did, a black limousine and a black panel truck appeared as if from nowhere. They drove through the gate, heading across the large courtyard towards the access tunnels. Turcey hurried to follow.

            The limo stopped nearest the access ramp leading up to the first row of access tunnels. Halfway down was tunnel twenty three. There Giles and Willow were waiting, waiting for a rescue that would never come. They were his now – Arinoth's. Nothing they could hope to do would lead to their escape. 

            The driver of the panel truck walked around the back and unlocked the door. He gave it a shove; it rolled up noiselessly. Jenny caught her breath when she saw what was inside. More soldiers, although not moving with the lethal grace of the assault team she had seen earlier. Three hopped out, guns at the ready. They weren't pointing them outwardly, though; they kept them trained on the interior of the truck.

            At the demon sitting inside it.

            'Demon' was the only word she could think of to describe it. It moved forward, its ebony muscles rippling, its taloned feet clicking on the metal. It had been squatting in the back, the only way for it to hope to be able to fit inside. Stepping out, it unfurled itself. Twelve feet tall, with large bat wings spreading from its back and spreading out at least thirty feet tip to tip. Red eyes seemed to gaze right through her as it sniffed the air, its forked tongue flicking out to taste the scents there. It bared its fangs, hissing and growling all at once. It wanted to feed, and Jenny thought that it might just choose to feed on her.

            She was so focused on it that she didn't even think to look at the limo. It wasn't until she heard the voice that she realized that others had come as well. "Come, my pet. We have much to do." She turned to see an old man with skin too small for his tiny frame. He beckoned, and the creature walked to do his bidding. He smiled at it, and looked towards the stadium. The smile was not comforting in the least.

            The others followed. Jenny looked back once more, into the panel truck, as she was walking away with them. There she saw what she had missed the first time – a battered and bloodied figure lying across the back, barely conscious. She looked over at Turcey, who was watching her.

            "Informant," he supplied as a means of explanation. "He wasn't very cooperative." He gestured for Jenny to precede him.

            She tore her gaze from him, then walked away. In her mind she couldn't help but wonder. Was he really uncooperative, or did they do that to him for kicks? Her resolve was beginning to shake; she didn't like this, not one bit.

            It was an obscene procession, one which Turcey hurried her to the front of. They moved steadily, with purpose. This was the fulfillment of so much for so many of them. The anticipation was palpable. Jenny thought that if she stuck her tongue out, she'd be able to taste it on the air, just as that creature had. She would know soon enough.

            It seemed like a marathon to walk all the way to tunnel twenty-three. Their steps echoed like a circus troop in a church, but Turcey had assured her that their quarry wouldn't be running. They didn't know where MacKenzie was, but he would be here. If not now, then soon. They would have them all.

            Turcey didn't bother to mention that MacKenzie was no longer of any concern to them. Sir Radcliffe was dead. Soon they would have Willow. They would kill Giles and leave him, the blame destined to fall on the former commando. Once they had the girl, there was nothing more that he could do to them. Deprived of his guide and protector, branded a terrorist and a murderer, he would be adrift, without resources. He would be a wanted man, a hunted fugitive with no hope for escape.

            MacKenzie didn't matter once they had the girl, and they would have her soon enough. They slowed as they approached the tunnel. Time seemed to shift gears for them. This phase was almost over, soon world domination would begin.

            They moved into the entrance, entranced by what they saw. Rupert Giles and Willow Rosenberg, alone, unarmed, and completely surprised. Life was delicious.

* * *

            Ethan Rayne lifted his head ever so slightly. Two guards had been left with him, one of them the driver of the van. At least that's what he could see from this vantage point. They were just at the end of the truck, sitting on the back bumper. One of them was smoking a cigarette.

            His voice was hoarse with screaming. The pain had come, again and again, even when he'd done what they'd asked. It would continue to do so, for as long as he remained in their 'custody.' He was still useful to them, or dangerous, depending on how one looked at it. He had seen much, scrying on Ripper and MacKenzie. He'd heard much, and presumed even more. What he had inferred from the questions they'd asked him was more than enough to get him killed. His only hope lay in getting away, and now was going to be his only opportunity.

            It was risky. If there were more than those two out there, he wouldn't stand a chance. And then he would be punished, he had no doubt of that. Given to that _thing_ to be a new play toy. He wasn't going to let that happen.

            But if he was right, if there were only those two, then he had an opportunity – one that might never come again. Ethan began to sing, a soft lullaby, just hushed under his breath. It was little more than a croak in the night from his ruined throat, but it served to focus his thoughts, his energies. He wove them, carefully, intermixing the ancient words into the modern tune. He crafted a net with the magic, and then cast it.

            It took several minutes, so subtle was the magic. But slowly, surely, the two guards fell asleep. Ethan waited. If there was anyone else around, they would raise the alarm. He could feign innocence if that were the case, not that he believed that he would be able to get away with it. But he had desperation on his side, which often led to self-delusion. He waited. No alarm came.

            Gingerly, he picked himself up off the floor of the panel truck and walked to the end. He picked his way between the two guards, one snoring, the other still holding his burning cigarette casually. He stepped out of the truck and looked around. Nothing, no one. He was alone.

            Just beyond the gates was a car. He didn't know who's, but whoever it was would just have to live without it. He trotted across the courtyard to it, climbed in, and with a touch of magic started the engine, and he quickly disappeared into the night.

            It was a good time for him to find someplace else to live for awhile.

* * *

            "So kind of you to bring me my package, Mr. Giles." Arinoth's eyes glittered, and he cackled rather bizarrely. "If you will kindly hand her over, we'll be on our way." It was as much of an offer as he was willing to give. It was a lie of course, but he wanted to be polite.

            "We're not going anywhere with you." The bravado in Ripper's voice was undone by the trembling of his hands. He was waiting for something to happen, anything. He didn't know what, though.

            He didn't need to wait long. Three shots rang out, seemingly from nowhere. The two guards collapsed, instantly dead. The third should have killed the old sorcerer, as well. Instead, it disappeared in a brief twinkle of light. The old man cackled again, amused by the attempt on his life.

            "It appears we've found our missing Mr. MacKenzie."

  



	17. Chapter 17 Endgame

**  
** Chapter 17 

Endgame

_Friday, __12:03 AM___

            MacKenzie appeared wraithlike out of the shadows at the far end of the tunnel, emerging from within a neat row of seats. His body armor was in place and he held a high powered rifle at the ready. Giles and Willow pressed themselves close to the walls of the tunnel, trying to stay clear of the line of fire. The fact that he had already fired between them – three quick shots in a row – argued for his skill, or possibly their luck.

            He stepped carefully, one step at a time, assuring himself of his footing and keeping the weapon targeted on Arinoth. He wasn't sure what had happened – magic of some kind, deflecting his bullets. Or absorbing them, more like. He didn't know what that meant for their options to get out of this – all he knew is that he had to buy them some time to think of a solution. What had begun to look like a golden opportunity to end this once and for all was now beginning to look like a trap – one of their own devising, but none the less sprung on them.

            Turcey raised the walkie-talking to his mouth and pressed the call button. "Take him out," he growled. "Fire at will." He was angry, angry that his assault team had not only failed to notice MacKenzie, but that they were letting him approach without shooting at him.

            MacKenzie activated the whisper mic. "They can't hear you," he said in a sing song voice which erupted from Turcey's walkie-talkie. "They're all dead," he added.

            Turcey threw the device against the wall in frustration. Jenny Thatcher gasped. She was having a hard time understanding what was happening. The 'package' that had been stolen from the Weber institute was, apparently, this young woman. But how could that be? She was a person, not property. How could _she_ be what all this was all about?

            Jenny cleared her throat, hoping to negotiate the situation. "Collum MacKenzie, we can work this out." She put all her force and authority into her voice, but even she knew that it was simply not going to be enough. The old man shot her a glare – a warning for her to be quiet. She swallowed, and waited.

            "Put that thing down," muttered Arinoth. "You might hurt yourself, otherwise." He gestured, and the weapon was tossed aside, out of Mac's grip. Mac reactions were like lightening. No sooner had the one weapon left his hands than he had pulled out two pistols, firing both in rapid succession. The bullets were to no effect, though. 

            Arinoth simply laughed. "You're pathetic instruments of destruction are nothing, my boy." He cackled again. "You are nothing." He waved his hand again, and pistols seemed to crack like ice crystals. Mac threw them away.

            "It's over, Arinoth." Mac tried a bit of bluster, having little hope of its effect.

            "Brave words. Brave indeed." Arinoth sneered at the commando, his disdain dripping like a badly installed faucet. "Would it help you to know that those are the same words your precious mentor spoke to me, just today? He, too, felt that I should simply give up, when my prize was so close at hand. But he neglected the same fact that you are, you insolent little whelp: It is over when _I_ say it is over. Not before."

            He turned and paced, walking over towards Willow, who shrunk from him. He laughed at that, and turned to pace back to where he had begun. "Sir Radcliffe had been a snake in my garden for far too long. His 'Special Projects' division was always interfering in my plans."

            Jenny's mind reeled. _The_ Sir Radcliffe. But he had been dead for nearly two years, killed in a terrorist bombing at his office. She couldn't understand what this had to do with MacKenzie and Giles, but apparently everyone else understood. She wondered if maybe Jonathan had understood, as well. Sir Radcliffe was a special envoy to the RAF, and worked closely on any number of national security projects. If they were always interfering in this old man's plans, then what did that say for what he was up to?

            "My bomb should've killed him, I thought it had. Bah!" Arinoth spit, his anger keeping him talking. He'd lost control when he'd dealt with Sir Radcliffe, and in the end he had killed him without so much as saying a word. Now, he needed to vent – to gloat. He had won!

            "You know how you kill a snake, Mr. MacKenzie? You cut its head off. In Sir Radcliffe's case, I took that quite … literally." He laughed again, and everyone else – with exception of Turcey and the demon – seemed to pale. "Would like to see it?" he asked suddenly.

            He waited, anticipating an answer. None was forthcoming, which he found disappointing. Where was the fun in gloating if no one ever rose to the bait? Perhaps they just needed more baiting. "I kept it, you know. His head. I intend to mount it in my study." 

            Jenny shuddered. What was this man? He was a lunatic, it seemed. And a murderer. He had just admitted to being behind the terrorist bombing of Sir Radcliffe's office who, apparently, had survived until today. He had then killed him, by cutting his head off. Now he was going to mount it – a human head – as a trophy.

            She looked over to Turcey, revulsion playing across her face. What she saw shocked her. He was enjoying it, enthralled by it. This was his master, and he was a creature in its own image. She had made a deal with the devil.

            "I appreciate your efforts to track down my traitor, as well. Mr. Straznikof. It's a shame that your efforts were wasted so." He shrugged. No one spoke. He didn't realize that they were not up to speed on those events yet. He went on, oblivious to their confusion. "I had suspected him, of course, but he kept his thoughts well hidden from me. It was only today, when he thought that he'd been betrayed, that those thoughts rose uncontrollably to the surface. I could read them then, his guard down, his soul panicking. I could read him, and I punished him."

            Jenny was repulsed even more when the old man licked his lips. Spittle had dripped as he spoke, and now he tasted it like it was ambrosia. "The burning, I can assure you, is very, very painful. He screamed for a long time, I understand." He cackled again, and then regarded them with intense, crazed eyes. "Which do you choose, Mr. MacKenzie? Will you have me decapitate you, and mount you to my wall next to your master? Or would you prefer to burn?" He laughed again, for a very long time.

* * *

            Jonathan Trimble was wedged into a very uncomfortable position. He had followed MacKenzie's advice to the letter. Across the hall from the tunnel entrance, above one of the concession stands, he'd managed to get himself into a small space between the air vent and the wall. He had an impressive field of fire, but it would impossible for him to maneuver from there. He would have only a couple of shots, and then he would be discovered.

            That's why Mac had discussed the situation with him at length. He was their ace in the hole. He could only be used once, and it had to be when it could truly tip the balance of the conflict. Mac had been very clear that his life was not one of those things, and neither was Ripper's. They were expendable. Only Willow was important. Jonathan was not to interfere if either Mac or Ripper were threatened – that would tip their hand too early. It was more important that he be kept in reserve until the last possible moment. 

            So he waited, and watched. He thought at first that he could get a clean shot at Arinoth when he arrived, but he'd held off as he'd been ordered. He was glad that he had. When he saw how little effect Mac's weapon had, he knew that he wouldn't have had a chance of doing any real damage, and he would've betrayed his location. That would've been disastrous.

            But now, the tension was building. It would explode soon, and he wasn't sure of what he could do to help. His only real target at this point was Turcey. Killing him wouldn't really change things, though. So he waited, trying not to adjust his weight at all, for fear of making a noise.

            It was difficult, because the heavy seal of the letter in his pocket was biting deeply into his chest. That had been another change this afternoon, as they had discussed the plan. Mac had instructed Giles to give Sir Radcliffe's letter to him. "I'm not sure what it says," he'd stated, rubbing his forehead and thinking, "but I've got a general idea. If it's what I think it is, then Jonathan here is going to have a lot more need of it than you will when this thing is over." They had agreed, and the exchange had been made.

            Jonathan was beginning to regret that decision now. He had no idea what was in it, and he wasn't sure if it had been an opportunity to shift something of value, or something incriminating. Whatever the case, he had put it in his shirt pocket, and now it pressed mercilessly against his skin. 

            He wanted to move, he wanted to shout, he wanted to shoot – he wanted to do anything but wait. He was, though, a professional. He knew his job in this, and he was going to do it as he needed to. That meant keeping absolute focus, waiting until there was no other choice, and then not hesitating to do what needed to be done.

            Slowly, steadily, he breathed. 

            He had been up for over forty-eight hours. The stress was beginning to wear on him. He couldn't take much more of this. One way or another, though, it was going to be over soon. Of that he had no doubt. He just hoped it worked itself out in a way that let him get a good night's sleep afterwards. The way things were going, he wasn't sure he'd be able to avoid nightmares even if they did win.

* * *

            Ripper contemplated all that was going on, absorbing it all and looking at it with both practical and mystical experience. He knew there was a way out of this – there had to be. If there wasn't, Mr. Gray wouldn't have left them. The wheels were in motion for unraveling Arinoth's plans – they just had to see where they were leading. They just had to grasp the way out. For some reason, he knew with absolute certainty that it was his job to find that solution.

            Arinoth operated too much in the mystical realm for either Jonathan or MacKenzie to really see any of his weaknesses. To them, he was a super being. They had only their conventional weapons to bring to bear, and he seemed immune to those. Rupert squinted, his eyes focusing on the unseen energies surrounding the magician. Yes, they were there, bold and swirling. He could just make out the aura of power.

            It was very telling. Despite what he wanted them to believe, it was requiring extraordinary power and concentration to keep the spell alive. It was very broad based, having threads that seemed to prevent any kind of physical harm from coming to him. No weapon could penetrate that, not so long as his focus remained in place. It might be possible for someone to attack him psychically. There would be repercussions, no doubt. A being of such immense power would deal back any blow ten times over. Since the only person here clearly capable of doing that was Willow, the risk was beyond what he was willing to take.

            There had to be another way, another person who could attack Arinoth, penetrate his defenses, destroy his concentration, and be able to suffer the counter spells and subdue him. That was asking quite a bit. Willow might be powerful enough, but she was untrained and in a very fragile state. More likely than not, Arinoth would simply strip her power and her mind and leave her an empty husk.

            And then there was the final message from Mr. Gray. One word, and a Harry Potter reference, no less. 'Alohamora' – the spell to open locks. It made no sense. Why did these supreme beings always have to talk in riddles, anyway? And since when did eternal beings use pop culture references?

            And then he saw it.

            It all became instantly clear. All they had to do was survive the attempt.

* * *

            Mac didn't dare back down. Too much was riding on this right now. His only hope was to be strong, bold, and to answer the challenge with one of his own. "You won't get out of here with her, you know. Not alive, anyway." His look was full of challenge.

            "Is that so?" Arinoth spat back. "You cannot harm me. You've seen that already. Besides, Sir Radcliffe must have told you that I cannot die."

            "True, but _she_ can." The words were cold, but the effect was stronger than a slap in the face. 

            The old man hadn't considered that – hadn't considered the lengths they would go to in order to keep her out of his hands. Would they? Of course they would. He had no trouble believing that, because that was the length that _he would go to in their place. Further even, if the roles were reversed. He saw himself in everyone, he saw in their motivations and actions what motivated him to action. It was a vile reflection._

            He saw the others the way he saw himself, and that led him to conclude that MacKenzie was telling the truth. He needed to think, to not be rushed. Always, always he had planned these things out. He had manipulated generations to get a single offspring that met his needs. He had taken centuries to plan a move, placing every piece in place. But this – this opportunity was unraveling. Every move had been forced by circumstance, every maneuver driven by others. He would not be rushed!

            He hissed, spittle flying at MacKenzie. His rage was driving him to fits. His fists clenched, and he thought to lash out. But he felt his control slipping, and he slammed it firmly back into place. If he lost his temper now, he could become vulnerable to their attacks. No, he would remain calm. He would work this out.

            Willow had squeaked at Mac's announcement. She turned, burying her head in Giles' shoulder. "Would they really do that?" she gasped. Giles leaned over to whisper reassurances in her ear, at least that's what it looked like to everyone else. In actuality, he whispered instructions.

            He turned Willow around, a grim determination in both their eyes.

            Jenny Thatcher had heard enough. "That's it," she said, her voice building up to a bellow. "No one is taking her anywhere." All eyes, even those of the massive demon, turned towards her. Her confidence faltered, but she had begun, so she wasn't going to stop. "You're all of you murderers, and terrorists, and God only knows what else. I don't care who you know, or who you think you are. You're not getting away with this in _my_ country! Not on my watch. You're all under arrest – I'm calling in Special Section." She reached for her wireless phone, but the old man's voice brought her up short.

            "Turcey, shoot her already." It was a casual statement, the tone of a madman.

            Turcey's hand was already in motion, bringing his pistol up to Jenny's temple. She flinched as a shot rang out, then another. But it was Turcey who crumpled, not Jenny Thatcher. 

            Chaos broke loose. Jenny dove to the side, clutching her phone and attempting to call for help. Arinoth screamed in frustration, his hands hooked into claws. It was Trimble. Trimble who had supposedly been left behind. Trimble who had known that the communications channel was compromised. That could only mean that everything was a setup. He would kill them, kill them _all_. Let the girl be damned along with them! He began to chant, to weave a spell of destruction that would level the entire stadium.

            Willow, though, was faster. She didn't need to weave the spell, because she understood the magic at its most primal level. That is what made her so devastating when she'd been evil; it's what made her their only hope now. She reached out in her mind, grasping her target. She balanced the energy within herself against the energies there. She knew her desired outcome, and how that energy needed to be twisted in order to achieve it. The words of a spell were secondary, serving only to focus the will of the caster. If the caster truly knew, truly understood the energies and outcomes, a single word would unleash them. Her mind grasped all the outcomes, all the probabilities, and harnessed the mystical energies around her tightly. She twisted them, speaking a single word as she did, one that embodied everything she was trying to achieve. 

            "Alohamora."

            A lock clicked, and the collar fell from Arinoth's demonic slave. It hit the ground with a dull clang of metal on concrete, echoing through the tunnel. But that sound went unnoticed. As soon as it unhitched, the demon was free, and the dull growl in its chest became a full throated roar of rage and elation. It was like a hundred lions had been let loose at once, magnified through a hundred megaphones.

            The screamed disrupted Arinoth's spell, he faltered, and the threads of magic around him began to dissolve. He couldn't keep them together, his mind was distracted. The shield around him began to falter as well, to weaken with his distress. It wasn't much, but the demon didn't need much.

            One massive demon arm swung out, its hand splaying fully across the old man's chest. The talons bit deep, puncturing his lungs, his throat, his abdomen. Any attempt he might have made to cast a spell was over. He had no voice, no breath. He was dying. He knew that he would recover from that – these wounds could not kill him permanently. His eyes were lit in triumph. He would have another day.

            He was hauled aloft, and brought close to the demon's face. It spoke, its voice a deep bass rumbling off the walls. "Now _you_ will truly learn of _eternal_ vengeance." The words were thick with malice.  The triumph in Arinoth's eyes turned to madness, and then faded entirely. He would awaken again, soon; and the demon would be there. It would be there forever more.

  



	18. Chapter 18 Swept Under the Rug

**  
** Chapter 18 

Swept Under the Rug

_Friday, __7:22 AM___

            It was early morning, but no light penetrated the walls of the MI-5 detention center. They were each being held separately while the investigators attempted to sort it all out. They weren't able to get any sleep due to the near constant questioning. Over and over, the same topics again and again. Each one repeated each sequence as they remembered it, leaving out those details that they had agreed not to mention.

            Jenny Thatcher was the sole exception to that. She offered more than her share of opinions, corrections, and all around vitriol to proceedings. Finally, upon Crombey's orders, she'd been given a sedative and taken to a quiet place to rest. It was a right fine mess.

            Crombey had woken up Number Ten with a report at about one a.m. By five, the PM was sitting in his office debating the issue, knowing they would need to leak something to the news outlets soon. What exactly that would be was a matter of furious debate and endless recriminations.

            Jonathan Trimble had managed to reach Jerome and order him to come in right away. He wanted his team to be present during the sorting out process, most of them anyway. His message to Alicia had been somewhat different. She didn't arrive until six-thirty a.m., and with her was the Foreign Secretary, Sir Mark Blackwell.

            Sir Blackwell was much more than a spectator, he had nearly the entire story worked out. The official version, anyway. He had little enough idea about what the truth really was, but he knew how to spin it into something that the public would consume and feel good about. Being a close confidante of the PM didn't hurt much, either.

            In the end, they were left with little choice, primarily due to the two letters which had been in MacKenzie and Trimble's possession. They were … problematic. Their very presence made the situation very sticky. They needed to bury them, and the easiest way to do that was to avoid any lengthy trials. 

            "The fact is, the country has been on alert for two days and needs to be set to rights." Crombey had dragged them all out of their separate confinement – minus the sedated Jenny Thatcher – to a conference room, with the PM and Sir Blackwell in attendance. "Which is why we've decided not to fight what's in these letters." He paused, glaring at the two men, before asking the next question. "Do you know what was in them?"

            "No, sir," Jonathan replied instantly.

            "I have a suspicion, but nothing more," MacKenzie supplied. He had finally understood Sir Radcliffe's statement about taking a lesson from Dumas. He had done exactly what Cardinal Richelieu had done, for exactly the same reasons. Only this time, the letters had stayed in the hands of the intended recipients.

            Crombey waved one of the letters at them, daring anyone to challenge that this was, in fact, the actual letter they had been given. Seeing no challenge, he put his glasses on and read aloud: 'The bearer of this letter has done all they have done for the good of England, and at the order of her Majesty, through her servant, Sir Radcliffe Holm, Director of Special Projects, blah, blah, blah." He set the letter down and rubbed his forehead.

            "Do you understand the position this puts us in, either of you?" It was the prime minister who was speaking, and he was clearly unhappy.  "This is a pardon – a _blanket pardon. Completely preposterous. Simply unheard of." He waved his hand, at the absolutely absurdity of it._

            "We can't very well have it getting out that Her Majesty's government is in the habit of issuing blanket pardons, _in advance_, to _rogue_ agents." The Foreign Secretary was clearly disturbed at the thought. Indeed, the foreign policy implications were staggering. The backlash from other governments would set diplomacy back twenty years.

            "But they are legal, aren't they?" MacKenzie was more than willing to push his luck in this. He had them on the ropes, so to speak. He simply needed to play his cards right, and they would all come out of this okay.

            "They're legal simply because we've decided that they're legal." Crombey pointed at the two of them with his glasses. "And let's be clear, we've only done that because we don't want anyone challenging the legality of it all."

            Despite his best intentions, Giles burst out laughing. The absurdity was clearly in the explanation, not in the pardon. He realized that no one else was laughing, but he couldn't help himself. He sobered after a moment.

            "The point is," the PM interjected, "that you two are off the hook. As much as that makes me ever so uncomfortable." He glared from one to the other, but he was clearly not making much of an impression. "As for Miss Rosenberg, there's not a single indication in any of the testimony that she actually ever did anything wrong." He shrugged, that fact having made him even more furious than the letters that Sir Radcliffe had written. "Mr. Giles, in exchange for keeping all of this secret, we are prepared to offer you immunity from any _infractions you may have committed." _

            "Thank you, yes," said Giles, trying to suppress a sigh of relief.  In truth, he really wasn't sure what those infractions might be. He could fight it, but what would that gain him? He wasn't inclined to say anything to anyone to begin with. This way, at least, everyone got what they wanted.

            "That's that, then," the PM declared, then stood up and left the room without any further commentary. The Foreign Secretary trailed after them.

            Crombey, for his part, burst into laughter as soon as the two politicians had left. "Good God," he said, wiping his eyes, "where do they come up with these things?" He was referring, of course, to the issue of the legality of the letters. "Let's be honest, gents. I have no idea whether or not these things would hold up in court. I seriously doubt it, to be honest. But the flap they would cause would be a disaster. And, as much as they hate to admit it, you were in the right. You were acting on behalf of your country, doing your jobs, and right bloody well, too."

            He shuffled through some papers, looking back and forth at the various documents spread out before him. "The Foreign Secretary had crafted a report already – crafty bastard, that one. I'm going to hit the highlights for you, so you know what to expect. It'll be all over the BBC in an hour."

            He paused, getting his bearings on this altered version of reality. There was more fiction in government press releases than he cared to admit, but this one really took the prize. "It seems that there's been an attempt by unnamed malcontents to engage in illegal arm sales to questionable foreign governments. It seems that the Foreign Office engaged with the military to assign one of their best men to breaking up the ring. That would you be you, Lieutenant Colonel MacKenzie. Heh, the promotion is effective next month, so we still have time to take all this back and throw the book at you." He turned his gaze back to the paper, sorting through to find his place again. 

            "Now then, Mr. Giles here has a young lady friend visiting, that would be you Miss Rosenberg. I'm sorry, but everyone's going to pretty much assume that you two are shagging. Not much way around that." Willow looked aghast, but Giles simply smirked. Well, it wouldn't hurt _his reputation, at least._

            "It seems that Miss Rosenberg stumbled across something using a public computer at an Internet café. The bad guys – all of who are dead, by the way, it gives us plenty of names to pin this all on – tried to eliminate her. Mr. Giles took her on the run. Mr. MacKenzie tried to help. And the whole thing got all wrapped up last night. We apologize for any misleading public information that got out."

            He stopped, looking them all over. "Now, the case was solved by Jenny Thatcher, who is taking a new position with the home office. Thank God! Sorry Jonny, but you were working the Heathrow case, just like we agreed."

            "No problem," Jonathan replied. He hadn't expected any credit; he was grateful just to avoid ending up in prison.

            "However, with Jenny leaving, I've decided that I need a section lead to take over more of my responsibilities. I'm afraid that you're the only one qualified." Crombey waggled his eyebrows.

            "What about the others in the group?" Jonathan asked. His team had acted counter the rest of the organization. That kind of action could lead to very bad feelings in the office. 

            "Officially, it was part of a planned 'live fire' exercise to test our operational readiness against unexpected challenges. Your team was just doing as they were ordered to, and the others will be getting their chance during some other evaluation period." It was the best he had been able to come up with at the time, and he was sticking with it. Staff would start arriving soon, so they had to have some sort of story to tell. "Miles is the most personally affected, but he'll be getting a promotion out of this, so that should settle him. As for your man Eric, I think maybe a month in the steno pool might wise him up a bit."

            Jonathan nodded. Eric had gotten sloppy, he needed something humiliating to reinforce that lesson. The steno pool would be just the thing to do that. "Anything else?" he asked.

            "Well, you've managed to get a number of MPs flitting about with a bad case of the vapors over all of this, but that will just need to be handled." Crombey shrugged. Parliamentary oversight was an ongoing game in this business.

            Jonathan turned to MacKenzie, a smile on his face. "The MPs like to flit, it's pretty much how they get around. I think it's called _flittery."_

            MacKenzie returned the smile. "And here I keep getting told that flittery will get me nowhere." Lack of sleep hadn't improved his sense of humor.

            "That will be quite enough out of the two of you," Crombey said, his own smile belying his sternness. "Now, Mr. MacKenzie here is giving the accounting office fits, and the foreign office has a proposal for him, so I would kindly request that you all get out before I have you thrown out." He smiled again, sweetly, but there was steel behind it this time. He had an office to run, and it was getting near business hours.

            Ripper, Willow, and Jonathan all left the office, allowing MacKenzie to have his discussion with Crombey. They weren't sure quite what to say or what to do. So much had happened in less than three days. Much of it they didn't understand. But they had survived, and, apparently, stopped Arinoth. He wouldn't be coming back from this, that was for sure.

            "We weren't able to shut down the Weber Institute," Jonathan said, his voice indicating some regret at that. He'd wanted to shut it all down, to root them all out, but there was neither time nor stomach for that sort of operation.

            "Don't worry, control has been returned to the rightful place." Giles, at least, was more sympathetic to his employers than Jonathan was. It would be a long time before a group like the Ring of Arinoth would be able to grab so much power within the Watcher's. They had been caught asleep at the wheel – they were unlikely to let that happen ever again. 

            There were still the other members of the Ring that had to be flushed out. That would be accomplished by the council, and others working for them. It would be done quietly, discreetly, but it would be done. They were unwilling to allow such a nest of vipers to exist in their own backyard without extinguishing it. There were also the remnants of Arinoth's own network. There was too much of that to have a hope of destroying it completely, but his death should mostly shatter its effectiveness. 

            That left little enough for them to do now, but go back and try to live the life they had three days ago. For Giles that meant returning to his apartment cum crime scene, and try to continue unpacking and settling his life here. He had thought his identity of 'Ripper' had been left behind long ago, but it was clear to him now that it was still alive and well. It provided some measure of inspiration to him. Could it be that he was destined to be not just what he was then or what he was now, but perhaps some blend of the two? Only time would tell, but he seemed to have enough of that ahead of him.

            Willow knew that for her, it meant returning to the coven and her lessons. It meant learning control, and being responsible, and all those other things that seemed to weigh her down when she wasn't running for her life. She realized that she had done two things during this misadventure. First, she had used her magic without losing control, even in a dangerous circumstance. Second, she had used non-magic skills to help out. The thought of that made her feel very warm inside, which took away some of the dread she felt about going back to her old life.

            Jonathan knew that he would sleep today – it'd been forty-eight hours since he'd slept last. He was dead on his feet, and he really had no other choice in the matter. He would collapse if he didn't get some rest soon. Perhaps Jerome could take him home. Then, tomorrow, with this all over the news, he would start another case. This time, preferably, with no demons or magic.

            MacKenzie came and joined them, a broad smile across his face. He looked like the proverbial cat that had eaten the canary.

            "What was all that about accounting?" Jonathan asked. "Are they making you pay for damages?"

            "Actually, it seems that with this official story in place, they owe me nearly two years back pay and back leave. So, I'll be getting a nice fat check soon. Which, considering that everything I own is pretty much on my back right now, should come in rather handy."

            "Good for you," Willow said. "Yeah us!" she added. "Then what?" She wanted to know that he would be okay. For some reason, she felt responsible for the last two years of his life. She knew in her head that it had been Arinoth, not her, that had so disrupted his existence, but her heart didn't quite get that. Maybe she was just on too much of a guilt trip, but she felt she needed to do something or, barring that, at least know that things would be okay.

            "Well, for that," he began, then rubbed the back of his neck. "They've offered me a job. I'll retire from the military, and then go to work for Her Majesty's Secret Service."

            "You'll be working here?" Giles asked, astounded at the turn of fortune.

            "No, no," he replied. "The foreign office has requested that I be assigned to MI-6. I'm going off to be a foreign spy, aye?" There was wisdom in that. He had extensive experience in infiltration, and he had already traveled the globe trying to stop Arinoth. 

            "Then I guess this is goodbye," Ripper said, shaking each man's hand in return. "Best of luck to you."

            "And to you," they both offered, somewhat simultaneously. Willow gave Mac a hug, and then Jonathan one, too.

            It was finally over. The threat of Arinoth gone. Their lives were once more their own. They each had somewhere to go to, a new dawn to enjoy.

            For Collum MacKenzie, though, he had something to do first. He had to go open a good bottle of whisky and get some fine cigars, and he had to sit and remember his friend. England had mourned Sir Radcliffe Holm nearly two years ago, now it was his turn. He'd do that before he took on his new responsibilities. His life had been on hold for two years, fighting this fight. It could wait a few more days while he remembered.

            After all, some things were worth it.

* * *

            Back in his office, Crombey stared at the ring he had taken from his safe. He hadn't worn it for years. Being a spy, it wasn't a good idea to let too much of your real personal life be revealed. He stared at it, remembering that part of him.

            Then he put his Masonic ring back in his safe – the square, compasses and letter 'G' fresh in his mind. The 'old network' would live a while longer.

  



End file.
